M.THOMSON 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


//  /  /^w-Z^u 


THE 

POEMS  OF  A   DAY; 


A    COLLECTION    OF 


FUGITIVE     POEMS    WRITTEN    AMID    THE 

CARES  AND  LABORS  OF  DAILY 

JOURNALISM. 


A,    M.    THOMSON, 

Editor  of  th«  Milwaukee  Sentinel. 


'•'•Over  all  life  broods  POESY,  like  the  calm  blue  sky,  with 
Us  motherly,  rebuking  face.  She  is  the  great  reformer,  and 
•where  the  love  of  her  is  strong  and  healthy,  -wickedness  and 
•wrong  cannot  long  prevail" — LOWELL. 


MILWAUKEE: 

SENTINEL    PRINTING    COMPANY. 
1873. 


-ps 

303? 


TO 

THE  EDITORIAL  FRATERNITY  OF  WISCONSIN 

THIS    VOLUME^  IS 

RESPECTFULLY      DEDICATED, 
BY    ONE 

WHO    HAS    SPENT    THE   BEST    AND    HAPPIEST  PORTION    OF    HIS 
LIFE 

IN  JOURNALISTIC    WORK. 


759835 


INTRODUCTORY. 


THERE  is  one  class  of  critics  that  will  be  likely  to  judge 
leniently  of  this  little  volume.  I  refer  to  those  gentlemen 
who  are  themselves,  like  the  Author,  charged  with  the 
responsibility  of  conducting  a  daily  newspaper,  and  know 
from  actual  experience  how  little  time  can  possibly  be 
snatched  from  the  pressing  duties  of  such  employment  for 
literary  pursuits.  Especially  will  this  be  the  case  with  that 
critic  who  has  been  himself  a  worshipper  at  the  shrine  of  the 
Muses,  and  knows  how  shy  they  are,  and  how  ready  to  flee 
from  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  world,  to  seek  a  more  con- 
genial retreat  in  Nature's  solitude.  When  Mr.  Pickwick 
spoke  of  the  poetic  quality  possessed  by  Mr.  Snodgrass,  Mr. 
Jingle  replied:  "So  have  I — Epic  poem — ten  thousand  lines 
— revolution  of  July — composed  it  on  the  spot — Mars  by  day, 
Apollo  by  night — bang  the  field-piece — twang  the  lyre — fired 
a  musket — fired  with  an  idea — rushed  into  wine-shop — wrote 
it  down — back  again — whiz,  bang — another  idea — wine-shop 
again — pen  and  ink — back  again — cut  and  slash — noble  time, 
sir."  This  is  truly  Pickwickian,  but  it  is  altogether  at  vari- 
ance with  the  experience  of  most  other  people.  The  poems 

\ 

in  this  collection  were  mostly  written  in  the  hurry  and  con- 
fusion that  are  inseparably  connected  with  the  responsibilities 


2  INTRODUCTORY. 

of  daily  journalism,  and  some  of  them  had  their  growth 
stimulated  by  that  unceasing  cry  for  "copy,"  which  ought  to 
be  an  excuse  for  their  manifest  imperfections. 

There  are  certain  conditions  of  body,  moods  of  mind,  and 
surrounding  circumstances,  that  must  be  favorable  before  the 
poet  feels  that  his  time  has  come  to  produce  his  best  work. 
A  man  may  make  a  brilliant  stump  speech  in  .a  crowd,  or 
ably  argue  the  case  of  his  client  in  a  thronged  court-room,  or 
debate  a  bill  in  Congress  with  the  first  men  of  the  nation ; 
but  under  no  such  conditions  can  the  poet  invoke  the  Muses, 
any  more  than  he  can  pluck  the  stars  from  their  orbits  in  the 
heavens.  The  divine  afflatus  never  descends  upon  a  man 
amid  the  noise  of  a  multitude,  but  in  the  stillness  of  solitude, 
as  the  dew  refreshes  and  fertilizes  the  flowers  only  in  the 
hush  and  quiet  of  the  night.  The  poet's  most  fruitful  season 
is  one  of  comparative  leisure,  of  slow  coming  to  maturity,  as 
the  peach  ripens  its  scarlet  cheek  in  the  sun;  and  it  is  as 
impossible  to  hurry  him  to  advantage  to  his  work,  as  it  is  to 
hurry  the  ripening  grain,  or  the  coming  harvest.  He  is  not 
the  stout,  clumsy  dray-horse  with  shaggy  mane  and  bony 
limbs  that  will  draw  patiently  his  heavy  load  of  dirt  through 
the  dust  or  mud  every  day  in  the  year;  but  the  fine-grained, 
sleek-skinned,  beautifully -proportioned  thoroughbred — lithe 
of  limb  and  fleet  of  foot — that  will  win  you  the  Queen's  cup 
amid  the  applause  of  thousands,  at  the  end  of  a  hotly-con- 
tested three-mile  race.  The  true  poet  is  a  creature  of  times 
and  seasons,  of  unreasoning  impulse  and  sentiment,  and  as 


INTRODUCTORY.  3 

unlike  a  machine  as  it  is  possible  for  a  human  being  to  be. 
He  scorns  limitations,  and  it  is  as  impossible  for  him  to  write 
a  particular  poem  bv  a  specified  time,  as  it  is  to  make  a  bud 
blossom  according  to  the  requirements  of  the  revised  stat- 
utes. It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  the  committee  of 
learned  men  a  few  years  ago,  who  advertised  for  a  national 
poem,  were  obliged  to  refuse  to  award  the  premium  offered 
because  of  the  utter  unworthiness  of  the  samples  produced. 
They  might  as  well  have  advertised  to  buy  a  robin  a  new 
nest  with  a  silken  finish  and  a  downy  inside,  provided  she 
would  hatch  out  her  young  by  twelve  o'clock,  M.,  on  a  cer- 
tain day.  Nor  is  it  at  all  singular  to  one  who  has  ever  had 
any  intimations  from  his  own  inner  consciousness  of  the 
feeling  we  are  now  considering,  that  the  best  national  lyric  of 
the  war  was  written  by  a  woman  in  the  silence  and  darkness 
of  her  bed-chamber,  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when 
the  great  republic,  in  its  travail-hour  and  agony,  called  to  her 
out  of  the  depths  of  its  great  sorrow,  to  give  voice  to  its  woes, 
its  threatening  calamities,  and  its  hopes.  Had  Mrs.  Howe  been 
set  to  the  task  under  the  cramp  of  restrictions,  the  product 
would  not  have  been  the  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic,  that 
has  moved  the  hearts  of  a  whole  people — helped  to  recruit 
armies  and  win  battles, — but  a  failure,  and  that  glorious  poem 
would  never  have  enriched  the  literature  of  the  country. 

The  poetic  element  stands  in  the  same  relation  to  practical 
life  that  the  spiritual  does  to  the  religious  sentiment  in  man ; 
it  is  the  intangible  connection  between  two  worlds,  undefina- 


4  INTRODUCTORY. 

ble  in  words,  but  as  real  as  any  fact  in  history — linking  us 
to  the  unknown,  and  lifting  its  possessor  out  of  the  sordid 
atmosphere  of  sense  and  passion,  and  introducing  him  within 
the  sphere  of  the  gods.  As  the  Western  Indian  rests  his  ear 
upon  the  ground  and  listens  to  catch  the  tread  of  friends 
or  foes  afar  off,  so  the  imagination  of  the  bard  does  its 
pioneer  work,  and  hears  the  advancing  footfalls  of  the  com- 
ing ages  long  before  they  attract  the  attention  of  common 
men.  The  poet  walks  the  earth  as  other  men  do,  earns  his 
bread  like  the  rest,  but  lives  in  a  region  apart  from  his  fel- 
lows which  he  has  peopled  with  superior  beings,  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  finer  and  more  glorious  atmosphere.  We  call 
him  impracticable,  and  he  is;  a  dreamer  about  intangible 
things  that  cannot  be  coined  into  cash ;  a  lover  of  sunsets 
when  he  ought  to  be  reckoning  interest;  preferring  a  lily  to  a 
cabbage;  courting  Nature  when  he  ought  to  be  courting 
Mammon ;  entranced  by  the  majestic  beauty  of  the  moun- 
tain's scenery,  but  indifferent  to  the  precious  metals  that  are 
hidden  in  its  deep  bosom ;  unacquainted  with  his  next-door 
neighbor,  yet  familiar  with  the  good  and  great  beyond  the 
seas,  and  sits  down  to  banquet  daily  with  the  lords  of  manv 
lands.  He  lives  in  the  enjoyment  of  riches  that  the  million- 
aire can  neither  purchase  nor  enjoy.  His  imagination  is  the 
palace  in  which  assemble  the  kings  and  queens  and  all  the 
worthy  nobles  of  the  historic  past,  and  those  of  the  good 
time  coming  of  which  the  prophets  tell  and  the  poets  sing. 
His  bank  account  is  in  the  air,  and  sky,  and  sea,  and  the 


INTROD  UC  TOR  T.  5 

unpitjing  stars  that  have  seen  the  teeming  myriads  of  earth's 
children  rise  and  fall  without  a  tear,  lend  him  their  light  and 
splendor  as  freely  as  when  they  sang  their  first  song  together 
over  Bethlehem's  manger.  The  beauty  of  the  seasons,  the 
bud  and  bloom  of  early  spring-time,  the  sweet  carol  of  the 
summer  birds,  the  gorgeous  tints  of  the  autumnal  foliage, 
and  the  hurrying  clouds  from  arctic  zone  that  fill  the  wintry 
air  with  fleecy  showers,  are  materials  that  Nature  furnishes  to 
embellish  his  life  and  thought,  without  money  and  with  none 
to  dispute  his  right  of  possession.  And  let  it  not  be  said 
these  persons  lead  unproductive  lives  and  are  mere  pension- 
ers upon  the  labor  and  bounty  of  the  world.  Thev  adorn 
the  otherwise  cold  and  prosaic  lives  of  others  less  richly 
endowed  by  God  than  themselves,  and  lend  the  charm  of 
their  genius  to  every  phase  of  man's  existence  on  earth,  and 
push  aside  the  curtains  that  conceal  the  future  and  inspire 
him  with  the  hope  and  courage  of  the  immortality  beyond, 
for  which  he  is  forever  yearning,  and  deprived  of  which  he  is 
a  friendless  orphan  and  vagabond.  There  is  not  an  hour, 
from  the  moment  the  first  faint  cry  of  the  new-born  infant  is 
heard  in  the  world,  all  through  life's  stormy  and  eventful 
career,  until  the  grave  closes  over  the  remains  of  the  aged 
pilgrim,  that  the  poet's  fancy  does  not  beautify,  sweeten  and 
satisfy,  and  bring  down  to  earth  a  foretaste  of  the  exquisite 
joys  that  God  has  in  store  for  those  who  are  worthy  to  be 

refined  and  exalted  hereafter. 

A.  M.  T. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 
PART  I— ANNIVERSARY  POEMS. 

The  Daily  Newspaper,         •-  •  -      .    -         -         -.11 

Wisconsin's  Response  to  the  Call  for  Troops,         -  18 

Death  of  Governor  Harvey, 22 

The  Dying  Year,  24 

Emancipation  Lines, 28 

The  Carrier's  Address,    ------  31 

The  Future  Editor,               38 

PART  II— POEMS  IN  WAR  TIME. 

The  Red,  White  and  Blue, 51 

"  In  the  Name  of  God,"  52 

'•  Pause," 55 

Union  for  the  Sake  of  the  Union,  57 

Why  Not  Enlist  ?                            59 

January  Lines,  1862,  62 

A  Warning  to  Cowards,                64 

On  a  Rebel  Ram,  68 

Ode  to  Sneaks,     -         -         -         -         -         -         -         -  69 

» 

A  Union  Song,         -         - 70 

Election  Rh  vines,        -         -         -----         .         .  74 

Wise,  John  Brown  and  Mason,        -  77 
PART  III — HUMOROUS  POEMS. 

The  Two  Horns  of  Tom  Brown's  Dilemma,  83 

A  Poetical  Letter,  86 

The  Right  Man  in  the  Right  Place,             ...  89 


8  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

One  Hundred  Degrees  in  the  Shade,      -         -  90 

An  Editor's  Reverie  Over  a  Batch  of  Letters,  93 

A  Valentine  and  its  Answer,  98 

A  Parody,  103 

That  Fifty  Dollar  Prize  Address,    -  104 

A  Dog-gerel  Protest  against  th«  Dog  Law,        -  109 

Something, '       -  114 

PART  IV — MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Life,  119 

Hope  Deferred  Maketh  the  Heart  Sick,  121 

The  Snow-storm,          -------  123 

The  Maiden  of  Twenty-eight,  126 

Winter,                                             129 

House  Cleaning, 131 

New  Books, 134 

The  late  Hon.  C.  C.  Sholes,  136 

To  Horace  Rublee,  137 

Ben  Skinner  and  the  Snake,  138 

Old  Brown's  Carpet  Bag,  142 

Lines  on  an  Editor,  146 

The  Consumptive, 148 

What  Answer?  151 

We  all  Know  Who,  153 

The  Old  Bridge,       -        -  155 

The  Poet's  Reward,    -  157 

Barstow  to  Hobart,           - 158 

The  Old  Checkered  Apron,  162 

Elkhart  Lake,  165 

The  Yosemite  Valley, 169 


PART    I. 


ANNIVERSARY  POEMS. 


THE  DAILY  NEWSPAPER. 

READ    BEFORE    THE    EDITORIAL   ASSOCIATION    IN    1 868. 

The  famous  poets  of  the  olden  time 
Chose  many  subjects  for  their  classic  rhyme ; 
A  country  churchyard  was  the  doleful  lay 
That  made  the  name  immortal  of  Tom  Grey ; 
And,  singing  thus  of  our  poor  common  lot, 
His  verse  has  hallowed  many  a  lonely  spot ; 
Cowper  selected  for  his  muse's  theme 
The  sofa  where  he  used  to  sit  and  dream  ; 
John  Milton  had  the  devil  and  his  clan, 
And  made  him  famous  o'er  the  fall  of  man. 
If  aught  was  needed  to  inspire  our  muse, 
Each  one  of  you  might  such  a  subject  choose. 


2  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

Say  what  we  will,  no  honest  son  of  Faust 
But  must  admit,  though  at  his  soul's  dear  cost, 
That  he  has  kept  the  "  devil "  by  his  side, 
And  lent  a  willing  ear  whene'er  he  cried. 
Burns  drew  his  inspiration  from  the  brook, 
Or  mountain  pine,  whose  top  the  tempest  shook ; 
Or  stopped  his  plow  to  moralize  awhile, 
Upon  the  rose  that  grew  beside  the  stile ; 
And  I  have  chosen,  as  perhaps  you  guess, 
To  say  a  word  upon  the  printing  press — 
A  hackneyed  subject,  yet  't  is  ever  new 
As  summer's  passing  cloud,  or  morning  dew. 


The  Printing  Press !     What  power  within  it  lies  ! 
Look  at  the  sheet  that  from  its  bosom  flies ; 
Scan  well  its  lines,  and  tell  me  as  you  gaze. 
How  much  you  see  of  this  life's  active  phase ; 
Look  at  its  leaders — filled  with  double  leads, 
That  treat  grave  subjects  under  proper  heads, 
Perhaps  of  reconstruction,  or  of  gold, 
Or  a  financial  crisis  is  foretold ; 
May  be  the  tariff  is  just  now  too  high. 
And  this  free-trader  tells  you  how  and  why ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

Perhaps  impeachment  is  the  dreadful  theme 

That  haunts  the  writer  like  a  horrid  dream, 

And  every  aspect  of  the  noted  case 

Is  viewed  and  tested  with  a  scholar's  grace. 

No  subject  that  enlists  the  minds  of  men 

Can  miss  the  stroke  of  his  most  facile  pen  ; 

From  him,  religion,  politics,  and  law, 

Can  each  their  unction  and  their  methods  draw ; 

He  searches  all  the  wide  domain  of  thought, 

Where  poets  worshipped,  or  where  sages  wrought ; 

Where  freedom  has  been  wronged,  or  right  denied, 

He  plants  his  banner  on  the  injured  side ; 

He  draws  the  swift-winged  lightning  to  his  aid, 

And  makes  it  labor  for  the  ends  of  trade; 

You  find  the  price  that  England  pays  for  bread, 

The  prince  just  born,  the  statesman  who  is  dead, 

The  speech  that  last  night  thrilled  the  Tory  host, 

You  read  next  morning  o'er  your  tea  and  toast. 

Or,  if  you  seek  for  news,  you'll  find  it  there, 

The  last  divorce,  the  newly  wedded  pair, 

The  style  of  dresses  worn  at  last  night's  ball, 

With  comments  on  the  mode  since  Adam's  fall, 

When,  if  the  creed  be  true,  we  sinned  all ; 

The  latest  notions  thought  of  at  the  "  Hub," 


I4  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 


The  latest  speeches  at  the  woman's  club ; 
You  learn  how  hangman  tied  the  fatal  rope, 
Or  what's  the  matter  with  the  poor  old  Pope ; 
What  Bismarck  thinks  concerning  this  or  that, 
The  shape  of  ribbon  on  Eugenie's  hat ; 
What  ships  have  sailed  away  from  foreign  port, 
The  shoddy  snobs  just  introduced  at  court ; 
How  Congress  voted  on  the  whisky  tax, 
The  latest  humbugs  brought  out  by  the  quacks ; 
You  read  of  hurricanes  that  swept  the  .seas, 
Or  how  some  men  take  snuff  and  others  sneeze ; 
Here  is  the  latest  rupture  in  the  Church, 
And  there  a  teacher  who  applies  the  birch  ; 
A  careful  critique  on  some  author's  book, 
Or,  may  be,  one  less  careful  on  Black  Crook  ; 
Perhaps  two  youths  whose  souls  are  all  aflame 
With  passions  that  their  reason  cannot  tame, 
Are  sure  they  see  the  future  full  of  hope, 
And  from  paternal  nests  they  both  elope ; 
Wedding  in  haste,  at  leisure  to  repent, 
Thus  home  is  lost,  and  love  forever  spent. 

A  thousand  themes  the  Local's  skill  engage, 
WTith  pen  and  ink  he  photographs  the  age. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DAT. 
i 

Sometimes  it  is  a  sermon,  now  the  stage, 

He  pleases  some,  puts  others  in  a  rage. 

What  phase  of  life  is  not  recorded  there  ? 

A  horrid  murder  stands  beside  a  prayer ; 

A  conflagration  with  the  loss  of  life, 

The  story  of  a  man  who  beats  his  wife ; 

A  row  that  happened  in  the  bloody  Third, 

The  latest  news  that  Mrs.  Grundy  heard; 

The  details  of  a  noted  scandal  case 

That  covered  all  the  parties  in  disgrace : — 

He  goes  to  church  where  lovers  plight  their  love, 

And  calls  to  witness  Him  who  reigns  above, 

That  he  will  cherish  her,  and  she  obey, 

As  on  they  go,  until  their  dying  day. 

He  weds  much  dry  goods,  silks  and  plaited  hair, 

And  bridal  gifts  of  German  silver  ware ; 

Some  have  been  borrowed  of  a  trading  Jew, 

For  fear  the  real  gifts  would  be  too  few ; 

A  pretty  waterfall  without  a  dam — 

(The  damns  come  after,  when  the  hollow  sham 

Is  fully  felt,  and  Angeline  and  Sam 

Look  in  each  others  faces,  and  are  known.) 

She  weds  a  mansion  built  of  brownest  stone, 

A  carriage  and  a  pretty  span  of  bays, 


!  6  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

(Though  honest  debt  her  husband  never  pays), 
A  trip  to  Europe,  and  perhaps  a  dance 
Or  gay  flirtation  at  the  Court  of  France. 
The  trade  is  nearly  even  on  each  side, 
The  bridegroom  gets  a  fool,  so  does  the  bride  ! 
And  in  a  twelvemonth  our  reporter's  pen 
Is  busy  with  this  shoddy  pair  again ; 
But  not  within  the  church  where  vow,  and  prayer, 
And  sob,  and  whisper,  fill  the  perfumed  air, — 
But  now  a  sterner  scene :     A  court  of  law, 
Where  fine  distinctions  men  are  learned  to  draw, 
And,  if  the  wedding  gifts  had  not  been  plated, 
They  might  have  paid  the  lawyers  who  mismated 
The  pair  that  then  each  other  stoutly  hated. 
Tis  well  that  Justice,  holding  up  the  scales 
Between  these  two,  whom  mutual  hate  assails, 
Should  wear  a  bandage  tied  across  her  eyes, 
And  never  see  the  tricks  that  Cupid  plies  ! 


Let  Pen  and  Press  their  graceful  tribute  yield, 
And  give  all  honor  to  the  name  of  FIELD, 
Who  laid  the  track  of  thought  from  pole  to  pole, 
In  spite  of  sweeping  storms,  or  ocean's  roll ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T 

That  triumph  Nature  ever  shall  rehearse, 
And  Science  weave  its  praises  into  verse. 
As  yonder  burnished  steel  on  cross  or  spire 
Disarms  the  threatening  cloud  of  hurtful  fire, 
So  that  magic  wire,  stretching  through  the  sea, 
Keeps  the  world's  peace,  and  fosters  harmony ! 
Peace  hath  her  victories  as  well  as  war, 
And  Love  is  stronger  now  than  ancient  Thor. 
Two  war-ships  meet  upon  the  mighty  main, 
But  not  to  fight  their  battles  o'er  again ; 
The  Lion  bears  the  spirit  of  the  lamb ; 
The  Eagle  carries  in  his  beak  the  palm ; 
No  British  flag,  o'er  deck  and  booming  gun, 
Boasts  of  the  victories  that  Nelson  won ; 
No  star-bespangled  banner  floats  in  air, 
To  tell  of  deeds  that  Yankee  seamen  dare ; 
But  each  bears  there  a  novel  wedding  ring, 
And  yonder,  on  the  ocean's  restless  tide, 
With  stern  old  Neptune  giving  up  the  bride, 
The  Old  has  wooed  and  won  the  blooming  New ! 
So  let  them  live  forever  side  by  side ! 


WISCONSIN'S  RESPONSE    TO   THE   CALL 
FOR    TROOPS. 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  GREAT  WAR  MEETING  HELD 
IN  MILWAUKEE,  JULY  31,   1862. 


Wisconsin  calls  ten  thousand  men,  from  city,  farm  and 

plain, 
And  to  each  village,  prairie,  hill,  the  call  comes  not  in 

vain ! 

From  Mississippi's  rolling  tide  to  Michigan's  broad  wave, 
We  spring  to  arms,  ten  thousand  strong,  the  Nation's 

life  to  save ! 

ii. 

The  wheel  stops  in  the  noisy  mill,  the  reapers  quit  the 

grain, 
And  beat  their  sickles  into  spears  to  mow  the  battle's 

plain, 
The  plow  stands  in  the  soil  we  love,  the  ledger  's  tossed 

aside, 
We  count  our  goods  and  gold  as  dross  when  Freedom's 

life  is  tried ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T.  !9 

III. 

Our  fathers  fought  at  Lexington  and  died  at  Bunker  Hill ; 
A  flag,  bespangled  o'er  with  stars,  was  left  us  in   their 

will, 
And  while  a  star  beams  on  its  field,  or  gleams  in  God's 

own  sky, 
It  never  shall  dishonor  know,  while  we  can  fight  or  die ! 

IV. 

Adown  the  Coming  Time  no  slave  shall  clank  his  cursed 

chain, 
And  taunt  us  with  the  cowardice  that  forged  his  life  of 

pain ; 
Our  children's  children  ne'er  shall  blush  to  call  us  by 

their  name, 
We  live  as  freemen,  if  at  all,  or  give  our  death  to  fame ! 

v. 
Grim  War's  Red  Sea  turns  back  its  flood,  as  in  the  olden 

time, 
And  there  be  those  its  passage  seek,  who  are  nameless  in 

this  rhyme; 
Dry  shod  they  enter  in  with  trust,  and  seek  the  farther 

shore, 
To  shout  hozannas  of  the  free,  as  Israel's  hosts  before ! 


20  THE  POEMS  OF  .A  DAT. 

VI. 

Though  traitors  plot,  with  phrensied  zeal,  to  crush  fair 

Freedom's  crown — 

Or  lift  their  daggers  high  in  air  to  smite  her  body  down, 
Each    Northern    breast   shall    be   a   shield  to  take  the 

murderous  stroke, 
And  Europe  yet  shall  gaze  upon  the  rebel  scepter  broke ! 

VII. 

We  swear  by  all  the  sacred  blood  which  patriot  fathers 

shed — 

By  all  the  glorious  memories  that  cluster  round  the  dead, 
That  though  we  die  a  thousand  deaths  the  nation  yet 

must  live, 
That  all  we  are,  or  hope  to  be,  to  Freedom  gladly  give ! 

VIII. 

Ho,  brothers  of  these  states  in  one,  take  courage  once 

again, 

Ye  stalwart  Minnesota  men  !  and  ye  of  far-off  Maine  ! 
Depend  on  us  in  sorest  need  where  falls  the  sabre  stroke, 
Or   in    the  battle's  rout  and  shock,  amid   the    cannon 

smoke ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T.  2 1 

IX. 

Wisconsin  calls  ten  thousand  men,  from  city,  farm  and 

plain, 
And  to  each  village,  prairie,  hill,  the  call  comes  not  in 

vain; 

From  Mississippi's  rolling  tide  to  Michigan's  broad  wave, 
\Vc  spring  to  arms,  ten  thousand  strong,  to  front  ranks 

rush  the  brave ! 


DEATH  OF  GOVERNOR  HARVEY. 

Bow  down  thy  head,  O  Commonwealth, 
Tis  fitting  now  for  thee  to  weep ; 

Thy  hopes  lie  buried  in  the  grave, 
In  which  our  chieftain  is  asleep. 

The  flags  at  half  mast  sadly  droop, 
The  bells  toll  out  a  solemn  wail, 

As  on  the  southern  breeze  there  comes, 
With  lightning  speed,  the  sick'ning  tale ! 

O,  dreadful  night !     O,  fatal  step ! 

O,  rushing  river's  angry  tide ! 
Was  there  no  quick,  omniscient  arm 

To  save  a  life  so  true  and  tried  ? 

Breathe,  lofty  Pines,  his  requiem ; 

Sing  paeans  in  thy  forest  gloom ; 
And  ye,  Prairies,  that  he  loved, 

Bring  Flora's  gems  to  deck  his  tomb. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

O,  State,  bereft  of  him  you  loved, 
O,  Mother,  from  thy  loving  breast, 

Our  friend  and  brother,  statesman,  chief, 
At  noon,  sinks  calmly  to  his  rest ! 

We  cannot  hide  these  scalding  tears, 
But  kiss  in  trust  this  chast'ning  rod ; 

Though  reason  sleeps,  faith  is  not  blind, 
But  sees  in  all  the  hand  of  God. 


23 


THE  DYING   YEAR. 


Farewell,  farewell,  to  the  Old  Year! 
To-day  we  gather  round  his  bier, 
And  to  his  memory  drop  a  tear, 

Singing  farewell,  farewell ! 
Slowly,  slowly  let  him  go, 
To  his  burial-place  below — 
Below  the  pure  and  virgin  snow, 

Sighing  farewell,  farewell ! 


Rest  him  there  forevermore, 
On  that  ever  silent  shore 
Where  his  sires  slept  before. 

Toll,  toll  the  bell ! 

Farewell,  farewell ! 
The  Old  Year  is  dying ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T. 

The  Old  Year  is  dying.     Farewell,  farewell, 
We  will  mourn  him  no  longer  with  tolling  of  bell, 
His  cares  and  his  sorrows  no  more  will  we  tell, 
To  the  tomb  let  them  all  go  together  to  dwell ; 

No  longer  sighing 

Over  his  dying, 
Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 


Let  be  buried  in  the  Past 
All  the  sins  that  held  us  fast, 
All  the  errors  of  the  hour, 
That  enchained  us  by  their  power. 
Sigh  not  for  what  cannot  be, 
Workers  for  Eternity ; 
Hope  is  ours,  and  faith  is  blest, 
Banish  faults  so  long  caressed  ; 
Let  us  strive  for  better  parts, 
Labor  with  courageous  hearts. 
Farewell  superstitious  fears, 
Let  them  perish  with  the  years ; 
Farewell  dark  and  narrow  creeds, 
Let  them  die  with  all  misdeeds ; 


25 


26  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DAT. 

Ring  the  bell  with  merry  stroke, 
O'er  men's  chains  that  have  been  broke, 
Let  hosannas  fill  the  air, 
Liberty  is  dear  and  fair ! 

Let  us  welcome  in  the  New, 

Make  our  guests  the  good  and  true, 

Bid  them  stop  that  teach  the  way 

Leading  to  eternal  day  ; 

Ope  the  portals  wide  for  those 

Who  will  bring  the  soul  repose ; 

Christ  is  with  us  if  we  say, 

To  illume  our  stormy  way. 

Burning  with  desire  high, 

See  the  promise  in  the  sky, 

O'er  the  black  and  threat'ning  cloud, 

Filled  with  thunder  fierce  and  loud, 

Spanned  already  by  the  bow, 

With  the  future  all  aglow. 

Joyous  bells  with  glad  acclaim, 
Pen  of  Poet  all  aflame, 
Tongue  of  Prophet — sight  of  Seer, 
Tell  us  tidings  of  the  Year ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DAT. 

Lift  the  veil  that  shuts  our  gaze, 
Though  it  may  our  soul  amaze; 
Unbar  the  future's  iron  door, 
And  bid  us  enter  in  before ; 
Let  us  read  Fate's  riddle  here, 
On  the  threshold  of  the  Year ! 


27 


EMANCIPATION  LINES. 

JANUARY    I,     1863. 

1  heard  the  silver  voice  of  angels  cry, 
And  Echo  sent  it  all  along  the  sky, 
"  Hosanna  unto  Him  who  sits  on  high  !" 

"  Yea,  glory  be  to  Him,  that  we  should  see 
With  these  poor  eyes  this  day  of  jubilee, 
And  one  more  race  of  waiting  souls  set  free." 

And  as  the  wond'rous  portals  were  unrolled, 
I  saw  them  writing  in  their  books  of  gold, 
The  date  that  all  the  prophets  had  foretold. 

And  while  they  wrote  it  with  their  pens  aflame, 
The  patriot  saints  of  every  age  and  name 
Made  Heaven  vocal  with  their  glad  acclaim. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T.  2. 

The  stars  grew  brighter  in  the  firmament, 
And  every  tongue  that  sang  in  Heaven  lent 
Its  voice,  and  down  to  earth  the  anthem  sent. 

The  earth  prolonged  the  glorious  strain, 
And  Freedom  was  the  grand  refrain 
Of  every  color,  creed  and  name. 

The  eyes  that  used  to  fill  with  liquid  pain, 
To-day  are  full  of  solemn  tears  again, 
But  tears  of  joy  to  see  the  melting  chain ! 

Banish  the  auction  block  and  cruel  thong 
Back  to  barbarian  night,  where  they  belong, 
And  let  this  race  lift  up  its  natal  song. 

They  shall  not  feel  the  blood-hound's  smarting  gash, 
Or  know  the  sting  and  pain  of  well-plied  lash, 
Or  the  dumb  ache  when  fiendish  passions  clash. 

But  over,  in  the  arch  of  their  dark  sky, 
The  sacred  bow  of  promise  hangs  on  high — 
Their  hopes  of  being  free  no  more  can  die ! 


o  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

Let  tyrants  sigh,  and  drawl  their  last  lament, 
The  arrow  to  their  idol's  heart  this  day  is  sent ; 
God  bless  the  archer  who  the  bow  hath  bent ! 

O  sacred  Liberty  !  how  dear  art  thou, 

How  radiant  glows  the  youth  upon  thy  brow, 

And  never  half  so  beautiful  as  now  ! 


THE  CARRIERS  ADDRESS.  * 


Kind  friends  and  patrons,  listen  to  my  ditty : 

I  bid  you  joy  upon  this  fair  New  Year ; 
Old  Sixty-two  has  vanished — inore's  the  pity, 
Since  I  must  go  again  about  the  city, 
Spreading  the  Democrat,  so  gay  and  witty, 
That  brings  to  all  a  smile  of  genial  cheer. 
But  now  I  cry,  like  the  horse-leech's  daughter- 
Or  rather,  as  the  rebels  should — for  quarter ! 

II. 

And  by  a  "  quarter,"  you  know  what  I  mean— 

A  silver-piece,  with  eagle  all  so  fair; 
And  on  reverse,  as  you  no  doubt  have  seen, 
The  cap  of  Liberty  sits,  neat  and  clean — 

So  was  it  on  my  last,  I  do  declare ; 
But  if  the  pewter  has  gone  out  of  fashion, 
I  '11  take  a  check  and  not  get  in  a  passion  ! 


*  Written  for  the  La  Crosse  Democrat. 


32  THE  POEMS  OF  A    DA  Y 

III. 

In  every  kind  of  weather,  cold  or  hot, 

I  leave  my  welcome  missive  at  your  door ; 

I  bring  you  news  from  each  far-distant  spot, 

And  speak  of  every  class,  condition,  lot, 

Rich,  poor, 'great,  small,  the  sober  and  the  sot, 

Saints,  sinners,  something  new  and  something  not, 
And  some  things  that  you  never  dreamed  before. 

For  one  whole  year  I  've  served  my  friends  for  pelf, 

Excuse  me  if  to-day  I  serve — myself. 

IV. 

The  art  of  printing  has  improved  since  FAUST 
Did  first  carve  out  his  simple  wooden  letters, 
And  pressed  on  parchment,  got  at  painful  cost, 
To  save  an  art  more  worth  than  ancients  lost, 

Raising  the  lowly  up  among  their  betters. 
What  if  JOHN  FAUST  could  from  his  dumb  grave  speak, 
And  see  the  Democrat  you  read  each  week  ? 

v. 

"  Hurrah  for  GUTTENBERG  ! "  the  world  doth  cry, 

Though  once  't  was  said  he  leagued  with  ancient  Nick  ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T.  33 


For  thirteen  centuries  old  scribes  did  ply 
The  tardy  pen,  with  many  a  faint  and  sigh, 
Hoping  and  wishing  that  relief  was  nigh, 
When  Faust  and  (Juttenberg  did  lift  on  high 

The  world's  own  scepter,  in  a  shooting-stick  ! 
The  chain  that  bound  man  as  a  serf  was  broken, 
And  with  one  glad  acclaim,  "Go  free!"  was  spoken! 

VI. 

The  ages  woke  as  from  a  stupid  dream, 

And  from  the  mind  of  man  then  dropped  the  fetters ; 

Athwart  the  sky  of  ignorance  shot  the  gleam 

Of  knowledge,  and  the  Archimedan  beam 

Lifted  the  world  upon  the  fulcrum — letters! 
Back  to  chaotic  night  fled  crime  and  wrong, 
And  a  freed  race  then  lifted  up  its  song! 


VII. 

To-day  Old  Abe's  emancipation  shell 

Does  burst — unless  the  powder  is  too  wet. 
What  the  effect  will  be  no  one  can  tell, 
But  if  it  blows  the  rebels  up,  't  is  well, 


34 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 


Or  blows  them  down  where  traitors  all  should  dwell, 

Both  North  and  South,  though  some  are  left  us  yet ; 
But  should  it  burst  beneath  Old  Abe's  own  chair, 
He'd  tell  "a  little  story"  then  and  there! 

VIII. 

One  year  ago  to-day,  Slidell  and  Mason 

Went  out  to  England  in  a  British  steamer; 
Then  crafty  Seward  put  his  cunning  face  on, 
And  tried  to  show  that  there  was  no  disgrace  on 
Us  to  let  them  go,  (the  diplomatic  dreamer!) 
But  you  do  know  if  Jackson  were  alive, 
On  English  beef  these  traitors  would  not  thrive! 


IX. 


But  Jackson  is  no  more,  and  Clay  is  dead, 
And  Webster  lies  at  Marshfield  sleeping ; 
And  James  Buchanan,  with  decrepit  tread 
Mopes  round  secluded  Wheatland  still  unwed, 

With  none,  in  love,  his  memory  keeping. 
Let  us  rejoice  when  his  base  tribe  shall  end, 
And  that  false  name  and  Lethe's  waters  blend. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DAI'.  35 


x. 


Time's  roll  of  honor  calls,  let  us  not  falter, 

But  make  the  most  of  blessings  as  \ve  go, 
Accepting  that  which  we 'shall  fail  to  alter, 
Laying  the  richest  sacrifices  on  the  altar, 

As  though  it  were  all  right  when  ordered  so, 
And  walk  life's  pathway  with  a  solemn  joy, 
Keeping  the  spirit  free  from  base  alloy. 


XI. 


Aye,  let  us  all  to-day  our  glasses  fill, 

For  those  brave  boys  who  went  out  from  La  Crosse ; 
And,  pledging  them  our  friendship  with  a  will, 
We  feel  in  spirit  they  are  with  us  still, 

And  know  their  absence  is  to  us  a  loss. 
We  pray  for  choicest  blessings  on  their  head, 
Honor  them  living,  mourn  for  them  when  dead. 


XII. 


Our  brothers  lie  on  many  a  bloody  plain, 

On  gory  fields  where  lifts  the  cannon's  smoke ; 
Grim  Mars'  red  sickle  strikes  the  human  grain, 
And  mows  them  down  with  mocking  for  their  pain. 


36  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T 

They  sink  and  vanish  ne'er  to  rise  again, 

Where  rings  the  shout  and  falls  the  saber  stroke, 
The  sobs  of  stricken  Rachels  fill  the  air. 
And  by  each  hearthstone  stands  the  vacant  chair ! 


XIII. 

We  mourn  for  those  who  have  so  bravely  bled, 

To  reconstruct  fair  Freedom's  broken  arch  ; 
Who  followed  on  with  firm,  unshaken  tread, 
Though  to  the  death  War's  crimson  pathway  led  : 
Kllsuorth  and  Winthrop,  first  of  loyal  dead, 

Are  joined  by  Baker  in  that  solemn  march, 
And  thousands  more  have  shared  their  gory  bed, 
Without  a  stone  to  mark  their  honored  head. 


XIV. 


( ),  cruel  War !  with  what  insatiate  greed 

Thou  feedest  on  the  loyal,  loved  and  brave ; 
While  Peace  seems  tardy,  with  what  swift-winged  speed 
The  passions  rush  to  combat !     They,  indeed, 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

Hold  highest  carnival,  and  onward  lead 

Down  to  the  dreadful  silence  of  the  grave ! 
Christ  is  mocked,  and  all  the  lessons  He  hath  taught 
Are  lost  on  creatures  whom  His  blood  hath  bought ! 


xv. 


The  clock  in  Time's  old  tower  sounds  again, 

The  knell  of  years  once  more  is  on  the  air; 
Another  cycle  falls  among  the  slain, — 
Gone  are  the  hours  that  brought  so  much  of  pain, 
So  much  of  joy.     Shall  we  not  breathe  a  prayer 
For  the  departed  year  of  Sixty-two, 
And  welcome  Sixty-three,  so  fair  and  new  ? 


37 


/'//A1  FUTURE  EDITOR. 


READ    BEFORE    THE    EDITORIAL   ASSOCIATION    AT    WATER- 
TOWN,    JUNE,    1 86 1. 


i. 


GOOD  MEN  OF  INK  :     The  President  commands  me,  at 

this  time, 

To  meet  my  brother  Editors,  and  talk  to  them  in  rhyme; 
And,  though  he  keeps  the  subject  back,  we  know  it 's   in 

his  heart 

To  have  the  Poet  use  the  pen  to  magnify  our  Art. 
* 

To  bore  you  for  an  hour  here  is  no  unpleasant  task, 
No  doubt  a  sim'lar  privilege  our  readers  often  ask 
When  wading  through  our  leaders  dull — leaded  to  make 

them  longer, 
And  wedged  within  an  iron  chase,  hoping  to  make  them 

stronger ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T. 


39 


Who  dared  to  guess  that  while  \ve  prate  about  the  rights 

of  MANN, 

To  give  the  masses  liberty  our  footsteps  ever  RANN, 
We  should  not  practice  what   we  preach,   but   do   the 

strangest  thing, 
And  send  away  across  the  waves  to  ancient   Rome  a 

KING  ! 

We  mourn  no  broken  REEDS  to-day,  but  all  the  names 

are  down, 
And  no  one  blackened  by  disgrace,  though  some  a  little 

BROWN. 
What  State  can  boast  within  the  craft  so  many  men  of 

pith  ? 
We  lead  the  column,  East  or  West,  when  under  call  of 

SMITH. 

The  MILLS  of  God  grind  slowly  on,  and  sift  us  through 

their  bolt, 
But  let  us  bless  the  LAWE  that  gave  unto  the  craft  a 

HOLT; 

We  HALE  within  this  festive  HALL  each  brother  as  a  peer, 
And  UTTER  sayings,  WISE  or  STRONG,  without  offence 

or  fear. 


4o  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

RICH  in  the  thought  of  HYF.R  aims,  W(H)ATT  WRIGHT 

have  we  to  MOORK  ? 
\\V  FOSTER  SrouT-est  virtues  WELL,  as  FnANK-Iin  did 

before ; 
\Vc  READ  life's  tangled  WEP.B  of  fate,  and  take  its  smv.>t 

CROSS  ; 
The  sculptured  STONK  keeps  mem'ry  GREEN,  and  HVDK.> 

it  from  all  loss. 

II. 

I  saw  a  man  of  many  cares,  at  table  old  and  round, — 
He  heeded  not  the  roaring  press,  nor  engine's  hissing 

sound, 
Nor  devil  crying  down  the  spout  for  "  copy — short  and 

fat!" 
Nor  lazy  idlers  who  came  in  to  bother  with  their  chat. 

He  was  a  man  of  many  years ;  his  hair  was  turning  gray, 

His  head  was  bald — he  'd  scratched  it  bare  while  think- 
ing what  to  say ; 

And  down  upon  the  virgin  page  his  thoughts  were  writ- 
ten fast, 

In  words  that  were  to  live  for  aye  when  through  the 
press  they  passed. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DAT.  4I 

At  length  the  weary  task  is  done ;  the  pen  is  laid  aside, 
He  looks  it  o'er  with  care  to  see  what  words  must  be 

supplied ; 
He  dots  the  i's,  and  crosses  t's,  and  makes  the  language 

terse, 
But   knowing  well  the   proof  may  read   precisely  the 

reverse. 


The  loafers  took  their  leave  at  last,  and  dropped  out  one 

by  one — 

Even  that  everlasting  bore,  whose  quizzing  too  was  done ; 
The  cry  for  copy  stopped  for  once,  the  clicking  onward 

kept — 
He  bowed  his  head  upon  his  arms,  and,  dreaming  as  he 

slept, 


He  saw  a  pleasant  angel  form,  who  carried  in  his  hand 
A  solid  golden  shooting-stick,  and  waved  it  as  a  wand — 
When  suddenly  before  his  mind  there  passed  in  swift 

review 
The  scenes  they  say  are  coming  on — good  times  for  me 

and  you : 


42  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DAY. 

He  saw  the  Future  Editor,  a  man  of  comely  air ; 

His  form  was  full  of  rotund  grace;  his  brow  was  free 

from  care ; 

His  cloth  was  unimpeachable,  and  faultless,  too,  the  fit ; 
In  making  him,  Dame  Nature  made  a  most  decided  hit ! 


He  was  a  man  of  solid  means,  and  substance  at  the 

"banks"; 
No  writs  were  plastered  on  his  back,  nor  other  legal 

pranks ; 
The  Sheriff  never  "locked  his  form,"  nor  "knocked  him 

into  pi," 
Nor  put  a  padlock  on  his  door  to  warn  the  passer  by. 


He  sought  no  favors  of  his  friends,   no  office  of   the 

State ; 

A  modest  def'rence  paid  they  all,  of  high  or  low  estate ; 
To  him  the  public  touched  its  cap,  old  age  tossed  up  its 

crutch, 
And  infancy  was  taught  his  name,  and  lisped  it  over 

much. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T. 


43 


No  sordid  politician's  axe  was  whet  upon  his  stone, 
No  paltry  statesmen  by  his  pen  were  on  the  people 

thrown ; 

No  corporation  used  his  sheet  to  spread  its  deadly  rot ; 
He  told  the  truth !     (God  help  us  all,  and  grant  us  such 

a  lot!) 


He  never  puffed  poor  candidates,  who  were  unfit  for 

place, 
Nor  swallowed  platforms,  plank  by  plank,  without  first 

saying  grace; 
His  party  never  gave  him  meat  when  eating  made  him 

scowl, 
And  if  he  "hankered"  for  a  quail,  he  didn't  get  "biled 

owl." 


Subscribers  never  run  away,  got  broke,  or  went  to  smash, 
But  always  paid  him  in  advance,  in  solid,  honest  cash ; 
No  burly  individual,  with  horse-whip  and  a  dog, 
Called  round  to  ask  who  wrote  those  lines  defaming 
Colonel  FOGG  ! 


44  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

He  never  was  enticed  out  West  to  puff  a  paper  town, 
And  see  the  mansions  of   the   rich  spring  thickly   up 

around, 

Until,  in  spite  of  pen  and  ink  and  all  his  sore  distress, 
He  goes  adrift  with  battered  type  and  second-handed 

press. 


His  pen  was  not  a  javelin  whose  point  was  dipped  in 

gall, 

He  loved  his  brother  editors,  and  was  beloved  by  all ; 
He  saw  the  public  was  not  served  by  petty,  dirty  strife, 
And  to  exalt  the  Press  his  aim — the  touchstone  of  his 

life. 


His  paper  was  a  model  sheet — from  slightest  faults  was 

clear ; 

No  horrid  murder  stared  in  caps,  nor  slanders  in  brevier ; 
No  scandal-mongers  found  their  food  within  its  dainty 

fold, 
But  Truth  and   Love,  as  pictures  fair,  upon  a  page  of 

gold! 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 


45 


And  had  Archimides  returned  to  seek  his  lever's  rest, 
They  would  have  led  him  to  the  room  where  such  a 

sheet  was  pressed, 
And  bid  him  there  behold  the  power  that  moves  the 

universe, 
A  force  as  strong  as  that  which  holds  the  planets  in  their 

course. 

Thus  lived  he  to  a  ripe   old  age,   until  at  last   came 

Death, 
With  life  run  wholly   "out  of  sorts,"  and  stopped  his 

fleeting  breath ; 
The  worn-out  "  case,"  now  food  for  worms,  back  to  the 

dust  was  given — 
Religion  "locked"   the   spirit's  "form"  to  "justify"  in 

Heaven ! 

At  length  the  troubled  slumber  broke.     Alas,  for  idle 

dreams ! 

Alas,  that  Fancy  ever  paints  what  most  unreal  seems — 
He  woke  to  know    the    Coming    Day  was  far  adown 

Time's  stream, 
But,  turning  to  his  task  again,  he  blessed  the  pleasant 

dream. 


46  THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  Y. 

III. 

My  brothers,  let  us  not  forget,  within  this  festive  hall, 
To  fill  a  bumper  for  the  brave  who  heed  their  country's 

call, 
Who  would  be  with  us  here  to-day,  but  for  the  Eagle's 

cry, 
And  who — God  shield  them  from  all  harm — will  bear 

our  flag  on  high. 

Thank  God,  no  recreant  heart  with  us  dictates  a  rebel's 

pen, 

We  stand  a  band  of  loyalists,  and  claim  the  meed  of  men ; 
We  know  no  party  but  the  right,  our  country  and  our 

God— 
For  these  our  lives  shall  be  laid  down,  our  blood  shall 

stain  the  sod. 

We  hang  the  starry  banner  out — the  good  old  flag  of 
yore, 

It 's  been  our  standard  here  at  home  and  on  the  foreign 
shore ; 

At  Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill  it  was  our  fathers'  shield, 

And  they  did  stain  it  with  their  blood  on  many  a  well- 
fought  field. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T.  47 

No  grander  life  can  freemen  lead — no  nobler  death  can 

die — 
Than    where  the  glory  of  thy  stripes  streams  upward 

toward  the  sky. 
At  Trenton,  Yorktown,  Brandywine,  and  there  at  Lundy's 

Lane, 
Thou   wert   endeared  forevermore  by  blessings  of  the 

slain ! 

Hallowed  by   deeds  of  sainted   sires,  and   blessed   by 

woman's  love, 
Baptised  by  heroes'  sacred  blood  whose  souls  now  rest 

above, 
The  vEgis  of  our  nation's  hope,  our  children's  children's 

shield, 
No  traitor's  grasp  shall  haul  thee  down,  nor  drag  thee 

from  the  field. 

Palsied  the  hand  that  lifts  towards  thee  the  rebel  mur- 
derous stroke ; 

Dumb  be  the  perjured,  lying  tonge  that  'gainst  thy  virtue 
spoke ; 

Cursed  be  the  fratricidal  wretch  who  would  thy  glory 
mar, 

Who'd  blot  the  azure  of  thy  field,  or  dim  its  either  star! 


48  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

O,  banner  of  the  patriot  dead !     Flag  of  the  brave  and 

free! 

Float  thou  forever  on  the  land,  forever  on  the  sea ! 
Where'er  a  son  of  Freedom  breathes,  there  lift  thy  folds 

on  high ! 
Where'er  the  light  shoots  from  thy  stars,  there  tyranny 

shall  die ! 


PART    II. 


POEMS    IN    WAR   TIME. 


POEMS  IN  WAR  TIME. 


THE  RED,   WHITE  AND  BLUE. 

A  drummer   boy  lay  dying  near  the  Rappahannock's 

tide, 
The  fragment  of  a  bursting  shell  had  pierced  his  tender 

side ; 
The  red  blood  flowed  o'er  snow-white  skin  upon   his 

coat  of  blue, 
And  thus,  Oh  Flag,  are  typified  your  own  Red,  White 

and  Blue ! 

Oh  blood  of  brave  men  freely  shed  to  save  a  nation's 

life, 
Oh  Mothers  of  these  fair-browed  boys  who  perish  in  this 

strife, 
Think  not  the  sacrifice  is  vain  that  God  demands  of 

you, 
He  has  decreed  new  glories  yet  for  our  Red,  White  and 

Blue! 


"IN  THE  NAME  OF  GOD." 


(In  a  debate  in  the  United  States  Senate,  upon  the  question  of  employ- 
ing negroes  in  the  War,  Senator  Browning,  of  Illinois,  interrupted  Howe, 
of  Wisconsin,  with  the  remark  that  there  was  no  constitutional  authority 
for  doing  it.  Howe  replied,  ''LET  us  DO  IT,  THEN,  IN  THE  NAME  OK  GOD  !") 


Indeed !     Has  it  come  to  this  at  last  ? 

The  Nation  is  sick,  and  the  doctors  nod ; 
And,  failing  to  cast  the  devil  out, 

They  cry  in  despair,  "  In  the  name  of  God !  " 
They  tried  herb  tea  for  the  Nation's  ills, 

The  cancer  they  poulticed  a  year,  about ; 

• 

The  patient  grew  weaker  under  their  pills, 
Seize  the  knife,  good  sirs,  and  cut  it  out ! 

Not  in  parchment  is  the  balm  you  seek, 

The  coveted  cure  is  much  higher  priced ; 
Secessia's  devils  can  be  cast  out, 

As  Magdalen's  were,  by  the  voice  of  Christ. 
The  Constitution  is  well  enough, 

But  it  never  was  meant  to  limit  God ; 
His  laws  reach  onward  toward  the  right, 

Though  blood  to  the  bridles  cover  the  sod. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  Y. 

And  now  they  cry,  "  In  the  name  of  God !" 

As  the  foundering  ship  goes  down  at  sea, 
When  quivering  masts  snap  like  a  rod, 

And  the  hungry  surf  beats  under  her  lee ; 
When  the  gale  howls  loud  and  stars  are  set, 

And  lights  in  the  binnacle  box  are  out ; 
With  pumps  unmanned  and  rudder  unshipped, 

And  the  mutinous  crew  defiantly  shout ! 


This  storm  has  threatened  for  eighty  years ; 

Ye  have  heard  its  mutterings  in  the  sky, 
And  ye  cowardly  said,  to  quiet  your  fears, 

"  It  '11  not  break  forth  till  after  we  die ; 
Our  children  better  can  stand  the  shock, 

And  Liberty's  temple  will  firmer  be, 
And  though  the  volcano  shall  heave  and  rock, 

'T  will  calmly  pass  like  a  cloud  at  sea ! " 


But  now,  like  the  publican  of  old, 

Who  fiercely  smote  on  his  naked  breast, 

Nor  looked  to  Heaven — he  was  not  so  bold, 
But  cried  for  mercy,  (and  you  know  the  rest,) 


53 


54 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  Y. 

Columbia  smites  her  breast  this  day, 

And  looks  up  to  Heaven  through  scalding  tears; 
But  the  mill  of  God  keeps  turning  away, 

Grinding  the  sins  of  a  Nation's  years ! 


And  the  Nation's  blood  is  bolted  through, 

And  the  Nation's  treasure  drops  out  as  bran  ; 
The  piteous  sob  that  comes  to  you 

Is  the  wail  of  the  Rachels  in  the  land  ! 
And  Afric's  mother,  with  solemn  joy, 

Sits  down  to  rest  her  manacled  feet ; 
As  each  white  sister  gives  up  her  boy, 

She  murmurs,  "  The  justice  of  God  is  sweet ! " 


Sackcloth  and  ashes  is  fitting  garb 

For  the  Nation's  limbs  until  we  repent ; 
Her  soul  is  pierced  with  a  poisoned  barb — 

God  bids  us  reap  from  the  seed  we  spent ! 
The  sign  is  good  when  Senators  cry 

Aloud,  like  a  child  in  the  dead  of  night, 
And  giving  no  constitutional  "  why," 

But  say,  "  In  the  name  of  God  it  is  right ! " 


"PAUSE!" 


(We  now  pause  to  see  what  kind  of  a  Government  it  is  for  which  we  are 
asked  to  pour  out  our  blood  and  our  treasure. —  Gov.  Seymour.) 


Would  you  "pause"  at  the  muzzle  of  murderous  guns? 

Or  "pause"  when  the  cannon  belched  fire  and  hail  ? 
Will  you  "  pause  "  when  the  rebels  are  shooting  our  sons, 

And  our  brothers  are  dying  on  river  and  plain  ? 

Would  you  "pause"  till  you  knew  where  the  fire  had 

caught, 

When  you  saw  its  red  flame  at  the  windows  and  roof? 
Would   you  turn   back  your  neighbor,  who  water  had 

brought, 
Until  he  should  give  of  its  purity  proof? 

Help  !     Help  at  the  pumps,  for  the  ship  is  aleak  ! 

The  wreckers'  wild  laugh  can  be  heard  on  the  land ; 
A  curse  on  the  dastard  whose  vile  lips  shall  speak 

One  word  for  the  false  lights  that  gleam  on  the  sand. 


56  THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  Y. 

A  curse  on  the  traitor — shame,  shame  on  the  dolt, 
Whatever  may  be  his  birth,  rank  or  station, 

Who  fails  now  to  strike,  like  the  lightning's  swift  bolt, 
The  rebels  who  clutch  at  the  throat  of  the  Nation  ! 

Oh,  dear  are  the  names  of  those  brave  hearts  of  oak 
Who  wait  not  to  "  pause  "  in  this  perilous  strife, 

But  take  to  their  bosoms  the  murderous  stroke, 
That  parricides  aim  at  fair  Liberty's  life. 

I  see,  through  the  vista  of  time,  as  I  look, 
A  nation  all  radiant,  and  purged  from  its  sin ; 

And  they  "pause"  o'er  the  names  that  are  writ  in  the 

book, 
But  the  letters  are  gold — none  of  copper  or  tin. 


UNION  FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  THE  UNION. 


Let  the  Past  be  past,  my  brother, 

Give  our  platforms  to  the  flame ; 
Standing  firmly  by  each  other, 

Careless  now  of  creed  or  name. 
Let  the  dead  with  dead  be  buried, 

Let  old  issues  be  forgot ; 
Till  the  traitors  shall  be  conquered, 

Let  us  share  each  other's  lot. 


Never  was  more  just  a  quarrel, 

Never  was  so  good  a  cause ; 
And  each  breeze  is  fully  laded 

With  the  Coming  Time's  applause. 
Let  us  strike  our  hands  together, 

Past  distinction  giving  o'er, 
We  are  one  until  it 's  ended, 

Though  we  differed  heretofore. 


58  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

No  dispute  who  mans  the  rudder, 

Cavil  not  who  climbs  the  mast — 
While  the  thunders  round  us  rattle, 

While  there 's  death  in  every  blast. 
On  our  lee  the  surf  is  breaking, 

Hear  ye  not  its  sullen  roar  ? 
And  the  wrecker's  mocking  laughter 

Comes,  like  echoes,  from  the  shore. 

Perish  ever  Creed  and  Party, 

While  the  rebel  flag  is  near; 
Till  the  good  ship  Constitution 

Stands  out  in  the  offing  clear ; 
Till  the  flag  our  fathers  gave  us 

Floats  in  sovereignty  and  might, 
And  these  lurid  clouds  that  blind  us 

Pass  like  horrid  dreams  at  night. 


"  Why  do  n't  I  enlist  ?     Ah,  you  see, 

I  have  reasons  that  answer  me  well ; 
But  there  is  my  neighbor,  young  C., 

Why  he  stays  no  person  can  tell ! 
So  hearty,  and  rugged,  and  brave, 

And  nothing  to  do  here,  you  know ; 
He  has  n't  a  house  nor  a  field, 

And  there  is  n't  a  reason  to  show ! 


T  is  true  he 's  a  pretty  young  wife, 

With  a  sweet  little  babe  in  her  arms, 
But  shall  man  risk  the  Nation's  dear  life 

Because  a  frail  woman  hath  charms  ? 
Ah,  if  he  comprehended  our  need, 

His  wife  and  his  babe  would  be  kissed, 
He  would  tear  their  white  arms  from  his  neck, 

And  come  promptly  up  and  enlist. 


60  THE  POEMS  OF  A    DA  T. 

But  /  have  a  farm  and  a  house, 

And  cattle  and  sheep  on  the  hills ; 
How  can  I  turn  from  profit  and  loss 

To  think  of  a  sick  nation's  ills  ? 
What  money  I'd  lose  if  I  went — 

What  chances  for  traffic  and  gain, 
Then  think  of  the  comforts  of  home, 

And  the  camp,  and  the  carnage,  and  slain ! 


But  there  is  young  Truman  De  Loss, 

Whose  mother  is  widowed  and  old, 
And  he  has  but  little  to  do 

Since  their  farm  by  the  Sheriff  was  sold ; 
If  he  should  enlist  and  get  shot, 

As  many  a  one  has  before, 
His  mother  could  come  on  the  town, 

Or  seek  alms  at  the  wealthy  man's  door. 


'T  is  shameful  such  fellows  as  he 
Should  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the  call ; 

That  some  should  be  slain  by  the  foe, 
Cannot  be  the  fortune  of  all ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DAT.  61 

If  I  only  stood  in  his  shoes, 

With  no  fortune  or  kin  to  protect, 
If  I  faltered  to  shoulder  my  gun, 

I  ought  to  be  shot  for  neglect. 

I  am  ready  to  cheer  the  old  flag, 

And  toss  up  my  cap  in  the  air — 
As  long  as  it  costs  not  a  cent, 

By  the  Union  I  'm  ready  to  swear ! 
Let  the  blood  of  the  Nation  flow  out 

Like  a  river  to  vanquish  its  foe ; 
Let  each  father  and  brother  turn  out, 

(But  the  doctor  says  /cannot  go!") 


Ah !  there  comes  an  alarm  from  the  South, 

Like  the  swimmer's  sharp  cry  of  distress ; 
An  army,  beleaguered  and  watched, 

By  a  vigilant  foe  is  sore  pressed. 
And  the  temple  of  Liberty  rocks, 

And  trembles  from  turret  to  base, 
And  the  Eagle  screams  out  in  the  storm, 

Ashamed  of  the  ignoble  race. 


JANUARY  LINES,  1862. 

Oh,  for  a  hero  to  lead  us, 

And  break  this  dread  silence  again ! 
The  State  hangs  as  dust  in  the  balance, 

Each  hour's  suspense  is  a  pain  ! 
The  Lion  of  England  is  growling, 

The  Eagles  of  France  whet  their  beaks ; 
The  vultures  around  us  are  prowling, 

And  yet  no  heroic  soul  speaks ! 
Give  us,  ye  Fates,  but  a  woman, 

Whose  heart  is  possessed  of  a  spark 
Of  that  undying  love  for  a  nation 

Which  burned  in  the  soul  of  d'Arc ! 
There  is  rust  on  the  sluggish  Potomac, 

And  treason  on  every  hand, 
While  thieves  break  through  and  are  stealing, 

As  fraud  drives  over  the  land. 
Give  us  back  again  spirits  like  Warren's, 

Or  Ticonderoga's  rough  Chief, 
Or  the  daring  of  Lee,  or  of  Jackson, 

Who  shall  give  this  sick  nation  relief! 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T.  63 

Half  a  million  of  troops  are  in  waiting, 

And  list  for  the  word  "  Forward,  march ! " 
Who  will  give  their  life  blood  free  as  water, 

To  restore  once  again  Freedom's  arch  ; 
Give  the  word,  Oh  ye  men  of  the  nation, 

Ere  Liberty's  temple  shall  fall ; 
Give  the  word,  and  bold  Victory  perching, 

Will  haste  to  our  Flag  at  the  call ! 


A   WARNING  TO  COWARDS. 

The  other  night  it  came  to  pass, 
A  sturdy  youth  and  gay  young  lass 
Were  sitting  near  the  locust  tree, 
Chatting  away  right  merrily. 
He  was  as  strong,  robust,  athlete, 
As  any  man  that  you  might  meet 
In  one  day's  journey  on  the  street. 
A  well-knit  frame,  erect  and  tall — 
At  swimming,  cricket,  quoits  or  ball, 
No  one  could  beat  him  there  at  all ; 
And,  as  you  know,  the  story's  told 
How  one  named  Hercules,  of  old, 
Who  was  so  very  strong  and  stout, 
He  cleaned  the  Augean  stables  out, 
Killed  a  bold  lion  with  one  shake, 
And  slew  a  fierce  and  monstrous  snake  ; 
And  this  young  man  of  whom  I  write — 
You  'd  freely  take  him  at  first  sight, 
To  be  a  son  of  near  descent 
Of  him  who  slew  with  such  intent. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T, 

They  were  betrothed,  as  you  might  guess, 

And  counted  on  much  happiness; 

Why  should  they  not — so  loving,  kind, 

So  strong  in  body  and  in  mind  ? 

But  now  there  came  the  tug  of  war — 

The  cry  for  help  rang  near  and  far, 

And  he  began  to  show  his  Miss 

A  long  and  horrid  diagnosis 

Of  all  the  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to, 

And  which  he  said  he'd  gladly  swear  to  : 

A  heart  affection  he  had  sure — 

The  lady  thought  she  knew  a  cure ! 

Dyspeptic  pangs  his  stomach  seized, 

If  taking  snuff  he  always  sneezed  ! 

His  bile  "  slopped  over"  in  excess, 

His  brain  slept  in  paralysis ; 

His  toes  were  threatened  with  the  gout, 

He  thought  his  gall  was  inside  out ! 

One  lung  was  gone,  or  so  he  guessed, 

The  other  was  diseased  at  best ; 

His  back  was  lame — must  have  it  cupped, 

And  ulcers  ate  his  liver  up ; 

Consumption  had  him  in  the  chest, 

And  gave  him  pains  in  side  and  breast ; 


66  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

His  joints  were  bigger  by  one  half, 

And  that  should  clear  him  of  the  draft ; 

And  every  ache  and  every  pain 

Ran  riot  through  each  bone  and  vein ; 

A  more  despairing,  worthless  human, 

So  full  of  ills,  wasn't  born  of  woman  ; 

He  loved  his  country  all  too  well — 

Would  sink  her  foes  in  lowest  hell ; 

If  he  had  strength  as  he  had  will, 

He  would  not  rest  himself  until 

He  stood,  with  bold,  defiant  eye, 

Before  the  rebel  soldiery  ! 

But  then,  he  feared  rheumatic  pains, 

And  southern  mud,  and  southern  rains, 

And  other  ills  of  camp,  were  such 

He  soon  would  come  home  on  a  crutch  (?). 


The  maiden  heard  the  craven  through, 
With  scornful  glance  and  burning  cheek ; 

"  I  loathe  and  hate  a  wretch  untrue ! " 

She  cried,  when  finding  words  to  speak ; 

"  What !  wed  a  craven  dolt  like  you, 
And  bear  a  coward's  dastard  name  ? 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  Y.  67 

And  know  my  love,  however  true, 

Is  but  another  word  for  shame  ? 
Nay  !     Get  thee  hence — I  care  not  where, 

None  but  the  brave  deserve  the  fair !  " 


ON  A  REBEL  RAM. 

Here  lies  the  rebel  ram, 

In  Mississippi's  calm — 

Like  an  oyster  or  a  clam ; 

She  was  a  perfect  sham, 

And  her  mutton,  horns  and  ham 

cent 

Are  scarcely  worth  a  damn 
To  our  Uncle  Sam, 
Or  to  "any  other  man." 


ODE  TO  SNEAKS. 

"  Oh,  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness ! " 
Where  one  might  hide  his  'capitated  head, 
And  friends  might  mourn  him  as  among  the  dead, 
The  same  as  though  he  'd  fell  by  rebel  lead, 

And  poets  take  the  ready  pen  to  bless 

The  coward  sneak  that  slyly  slipped  away 
And  hid  himself  among  the  blacks  in  Canada  ! 

They  want  the  honor  of  a  patriot's  name, 
They  thirst  for  some  immortal  word  in  story  ; 

They  seek  a  place  upon  the  roll  of  fame, 
And  covet  praises  won  on  fields  of  glory ; 

But  still  they  clutch  their  silver  with  a  grip 

Like  that  with  which  grim  Death  secures  a  nigger, 

And  with  the  love  of  country  on  their  lip, 

They  use  a  microscope  to  make  each  cent  look  bigger. 

When  such  are  asked  to  give,  they  only  laugh, 

And,  sneering,  say,  "  We  guess  you  'd  better  draft ! " 


A   UNION  SONG. 


(Sung  at  a  great  Union   Meeting  at  Janesville,  October,  1865,  at  which 
Schuyler  Colfax  and  others  spoke.) 


Say,  Cop's,  heard  ye  from  old  Vermont, 

A  State  for  freemen  noted  ? 
I  guess  snake-killing  time  had  come, 

The  way  the  people  voted. 
And  Maine  sends  greeting  from  her  pines, 

And  warning  in  her  thunder, 
If  you  would  save  your  copper  heads, 
You  'd  better  stand  from  under ! 
Vermont  and  Maine  are  true, 
Vermont  and  Maine  are  true ; 
Among  all  their  crops 
They  have  raised  no  cop's, 
Vermont  and  Maine  are  true. 

The  soldiers  from  the  Keystone  State, 

And  all  the  Quakers  voted ; 
The  boys  in  blue  are  always  true, 

Their  pills  are  n't  sugar-coated. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

They  know  a  traitor  at  their  back 

As  well  as  when  on  picket ; 
The  one  they  settle  with  a  ball, 
The  other  with  a  ticket. 

The  boys  in  blue  are  true, 

The  boys  in  blue  are  true  ; 

At  the  cartridge-box, 

Or  the  ballot-box, 

The  boys  in  blue  are  true. 


The  Buckeye  State  has  cleared  her  decks, 

As  you,  perhaps,  remember; 
She  's  getting  ready  for  a  job 

That 's  coming  in  November. 
She 's  stopped  the  crowing  of  one  Cox, 

And  smothered  Pugh  as  handy ; 
She  lifts  her  banner  high  in  air, 
And  shouts  for  Abe  and  Andy. 
The  Buckeye  State  is  firm, 
The  Buckeye  State  is  firm ; 
And  there 's  not  a  crack 
To  hide  Little  Mac, 
In  the  Buckeye  State  so  firm. 


72 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

The  Hoosiers,  twenty  thousand  strong, 

Have  won  a  noble  battle; 
They  are  determined  to  be  free, 

No  longer  voting  cattle. 
To  Badger  boys  they  send  a  cheer — 

A  hope  as  well  as  greeting, 
That  by  November's  solemn  ides, 
Our  foe,  like  theirs — retreating ! 
Their  Morton  is  the  man, 
And  Colfax  is  the  man, 
And  October's  sun 
Saw  Dodd  on  the  run, 
And  Morton  is  the  man. 


Old  Abe  has  steered  the  ship  of  State 

Through  foulest  kind  of  weather; 
He  '11  bring  her  safely  into  port, 

If  we  will  hang  together. 
Though  false  lights  glimmer  on  the  shore, 

Built  by  our  foes  so  handy, 
Abe  knows  the  channel  like  a  book, 

And  so  does  sturdy  Andy. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DAT.  73 

Our  Abram  is  the  man, 
To  steer  the  ship  he  can, 

And  good  men  and  true 

Will  stand  by  the  crew, 
For  Abram  is  the  man. 


Our  noble  Grant  has  Richmond  fast, 

Most  surely  he  will  nab  it ; 
Sheridan,  sweeping  down  the  vale, 

Shakes  Early  like  a  rabbit ; 
While  Sherman  seeks  a  lively-Hood 

'Mid  Georgia's  hills  and  valleys, 
Brave  Farragut,  lashed  in  mid  air, 
Past  blazing  fortress  sallies. 

He  answered  as  he  sailed, 
"  This  war  has  not  yet  failed, 
But  on  land  and  sea 
We  have  victory, 
We  will  have  victory  ! " 


ELECTION  RHYMES. 


(Read  at  a  jollification  meeting  in  Milwaukee,  upon  hearing  the  returns 
of  the  October  elections  in  1863.) 


Did  you  hear  the  ringing  slogan  from  the  gallant  Buck- 
eye State  ? 

'Twas  the  doom  of  "poor,  unhappy  Vail.,"*  who  still 
must  "  watch  and  wait " ; 

Ohio  loathes  the  copperhead,  as  honest  people  must — 

In  Brough,  the  loyal  Democrat,  the  Buckeyes  put  their 
trust. 


He  "waits  and  watches"  o'er  the  line  for  Palmer  and 

the  rest, 
And  by  November's  early  days  we  '11  send  him   there 

unblest ; 


*  Mr.  C.  I.,.  Vallandigham,  of  Ohio,  was  sent  south  by  General  Burnside 
for  expressions  of  disloyalty,  from  whence  he  fled  to  Canada.  The  Democ- 
racy of  that  State  nominated  him  for  Governor,  but  he  was  defeated  by 
John  Brough  by  over  100,000  majority.  Hon.  H.  L.  Palmer,  who  was  then 
running  for  Governor  of  Wisconsin  on  the  Democratic  ticket,  hoped  the 
indignity  offered  to  Vallandigham  would  "  culminate  "  in  his  election  as 
Governor  of  Ohio. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T. 


75 


The  "culmination"  that  he  wished  will  happen  by  and 

by, 

The  Badger  boys  on  voting  day  will  scoop  him  high  and 
dry! 


The  Ryan  platform   must  go  down — it  cannot  longer 

float, 

Wiscoesin,  on  election  day,  will  sink  it  by  a  vote  ; 
Straws  cannot  save  a  drowning  man — 'tis  better  to  get 

off, 
Than  venture  out  upon  the  sea  in  such  a  rotten  trough. 


The   Quakers   voted   yesterday   without   a   "  thou "    or 

"  thee," 
No  doubt  they  thought  of  Gettysburg,  and  rebel  hordes 

of  Lee; 

They  corded  up  the  copperheads  as  we  intend  to  do — 
All  hail  the  voting  broad-brims  now,  and  gallant  Curtin, 

too! 


7 6  THE  POEMS  OF  A   DAY. 

All  hail  the  pyramid  of  States,  so  loyal,  true  and  brave, 
That  stand  like  granite  in  the  gap,  the  Nation's  life  to 

save; 
Let  traitors  South  and  traitors  North  take  warning  while 

they  may, 
And  slink  back  to  their  loathesome  dens,  nor 'seek  the 

face  of  day ! 


Vermont  sends  greeting  from  her  hills — 't  was  echoed 

back  by  Maine, 
And    California,    golden-voiced,   flung  back   the   shout 

again  ; 

Ohio  and  the  Keystone  State,  and  young  Iowa,  too, 
Are  shouting  to  the  Badger  boys,  "Stand  fast;  be  firm, 

be  true  !" 


WISE,  JOHN  BROWN  AND  MASON. 


Governor  Wise  hung  old  John  Brown, 
Because  Ossawattamie  touched  a  trigger 
That  Wise  thought  might  release  a  nigger ; 
And  so  they  choked  Brown  off  at  Harper's  Ferry, 
And  all  the  F.  F.  V.'s  thereat  made  merry. 

"  He  broke  the  laws,"  they  gravely  said, 

"  And  if  old  Brown  is  laid  by — dead, 
Why  then  the  majesty  of  the  law  is  vindicated, 

Do  n't  you  see  ? 

And  Mason,  who  was  christened  Jim — 
(Ah,  how  it  thrills  the  heart  to  think  we  've  got  him,) 
He  made  a  long  report  from  that  Committee,  * 
From  which  there  cropped  out  neither  sense  nor  pity. 


*  Mr.  Mason  was  a  Senator  from  Virginia  at  the  time  John  Brown  was 
hung,  and  wrote  the  report  concerning  his  raid  upon  Harper's  Ferry. 
After  the  breaking  out  of  the  rebellion,  Mr.  Mason,  of  Virginia,  and  Mr. 
Slidell,  of  Louisiana,  were  sent  out  as  Commissioners  to  France  by  the 
Confederate  Government.  They  took  passage  on  the  English  steamship 
Trent,  but  were  seized  on  the  high  seas  by  an  American  man-of-war  and 
sent  to  Fort  Warren,  where  they  were  detained  for  some  time.  Upon  the 
demand  of  the  British  Government,  Mr.  Seward,  then  Secretary  of  State, 
ordered  their  release. 


7  8  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

He  wrote,  "Armed  resistance  to  the  public  good 
Is  treason  !     Let  its  penalty  be  blood  ! 
And  with  great  horror  Mason's  tongue  did  wag  on 
About  old  Brown's  attempt  to  tip  Virginia's  wagon. 


Suppose  a  case : 

Suppose,  upon  some  dreary  night, 
When  yon  pale  moon  has  hid  her  light, 
When  all  the  stars  are  blotted  out, 
And  clouds  go  rev'ling  in  their  rout, 
When  weird  whisperings  haunt  the  ears, 
And  fill  the  soul  with  vaguest  fears, — 
Up  at  Fort  Warren,  Mr.  Mason — 
As  glum  and  silent  as  a  bison, 
Deprived  of  banjo  and  of  fiddle — 
He  goes  to  bed  at  length  with  Slidell, 

And  sleeps  a  troubled,  dreamy  sleep. 


He  dreams !     Before  his  noble  eyes 
The  vine-clad  hills  and  purple  skies 
Of  foreign  lands — of  sunny  France — 
In  mildest,  gayest  mood  do  dance ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T. 

And,  as  he  sets  his  foot  on  shore, 

Grateful  to  think  the  voyage  o'er, 

Laughing  to  know  Atlantic's  waves 

Roll  'twixt  himself  and  Lincoln's  slaves, 

He  wakes ;  and  as  he  turns  him  o'er, 

Old  John  Brown's  ghost  stalks  through  the  door! 

And,  walking  straightway  to  that  bed, 

He  pulls  the  clothes  off  Mason's  head, 

And,  in  no  deep,  sepulchral  tone, 

Such  as  ghosts  sometimes  make  their  own, 

But  bows  polite — puts  his  best  face  on, 

Saying,  "  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Mason  ? 

I  'm  glad  to  see  you,  'pon  my  soul — 

You  know  I  've  got  a  soul,  though  Wise 

Did  set  it  free  beneath  the  skies 

Where  old  Virginia  never  tires. 

But  here,  within  old  Bunker's  reach, 

Where  once  you  made  a  noble  speech, 

Perhaps  you  will  tell  us  what  is  treason, 

I  hope  you'll  speak,  good  sir,  in  season  ! 

Of  noble  blood  I  make  no  boast — 

I  'm  but  a  poor,  plain  Yankee  ghost ; 

And  when  this  soul  stood  in  its  clay, 

Before  Wise  snapped  life's  thread  away, 


79 


80  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T 

I  strove  to  make  God's  poor  ones  free, 

And  lift  them  up  to  liberty  ! 

Men  said  't  was. crime;  and  you,  sir,  reasoned, 

In  doing  that  I  'd  clearly  treasoned ; 

But  times  do  change,  and  so  does  man — 

Ahd  tell  me,  Mason,  if  you  can, 

Which,  you  or  time,  has  changed  the  most, 

And  why  you  seek  this  northern  coast  ? 

You  've  not  been  stealing  slaves,  I  hope, 

To  end,  as  I  did,  on  a  rope ! " 

Fort  Warren  rang  from  base  to  rafter, 

With  old  John's  wild  and  mocking  laughter. 


PART  III. 


HUMOROUS    POEMS. 


HUMOROUS  POEMS. 


THE    TWO    HORNS    OF    TOM   BROWN'S 
DILEMMA. 


Did  ever  I  tell  you  of  the  sad  mishap 
That  happened  out  here  to  a  swellish  chap 
Whose  name  was  Tom  Brown — and  a  deacon's  son, 
And,  although  he  was  ftrwn,  he  was  also  "done"  / 

You  see  he  came  over  on  circus  day, 
Betoggled  and  dressed  in  Sunday  array : 
Taking  his  "gal"  to  "the  sign  of  the  Bear," 
He  took  a  stroll  out  on  the  public  square ; 
And  going  up  where  Ike  Root  was  sellin', 
He  just  went  in  for  a  water-melon — 
A  huge  red-core,  half  as  long  as  your  arm, 
The  very  best  Ike  had  raised  on  the  farm; 


84  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

And  Thomas  stooped  over  among  the  weeds, 
To  rid  the  melon  of  its  shiny  seeds, 
And,  thinking  not  what  would  be  the  effect, 
He  doubled  himself  in  a  crooked  aspect, 
Fearing,  no  doubt,  that  the  melon  juice 
Would  soil  his  dickey  for  future  use ! 


Across  the  street,  with  half-closed  eyes, 
Stood  a  masculine  goat,  stamping  at  flies, 
Silently  chewing  his  grassy  cud, 
Keeping  an  eye  on  a  puddle  of  mud ; 
And,  seeing  Tom  present  this  hostile  sight, 
He  stiffened  his  neck  for  impromptu  fight ; 
Then  running  hastily  over  the  track, 
He  struck  Thomas  Brown  on  the  end  of  his  back 
f 

Up  went  the  melon,  seeds,  knife  and  hat, 
Before  Thomas  Brown  had  time  to  say  "scat!" 
And  down  went  Thomas  6n  his  hands  and  knees, 
With  his  coat-tail  fluttering  in  the  breeze. 
The  crowd  grew  blind  with  mirthful  tears, 
And  the  wicked  boys  gave  the  goat  three  cheers. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T.  85 

The  last  I  saw  of  Thomas  Brown, 

He  was  making  tracks  for  a  grocery  store — 
Tightly  holding  his  coat-tail  down, 

And  swearing  as  man  never  swore  before. 
He  "cussed"  the  boys,  and  he  "darned"  the  goat, 
But  kept  a  firm  grasp  on  the  tail  of  his  coat ; 
For  the  goat's  two  horns,  like  a  pair  of  shears, 
Had  made  a  sad  breach  in  his  cassimeres ! 


A  POETICAL  LETTER. 


DEAR  GEORGE: — I  was  married  last  night, 

To  the  sweetest  and  loveliest  maid — 
Her  name  was  Lucinda  Ann  White, 

Her  father  a  blacksmith  by  trade. 
1  courted  Lucinda  some  time, 

And  I  sparked  her  as  well  as  I  could, 
As  fair  as  a  rose  in  its  prime, 

She  's  not  only  handsome,  but  good. 


And  when  the  old  parson  had  got 

All  of  us  to  stand  up  in  a  row — 
What  he  said  I  have  really  forgot, 

For  the  circumstance  flustered  me  so ; 
But  after  a  little,  I  know, 

Lucinda  Ann  promised  for  life 
To  obey  me,  as  onward  we  go, 

So  the  priest  called  us  husband  and  wife. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

Her  mother  squeezed  out  a  few  tears — 

Why  she  cried  I  'm  unable  to  tell ; 
No  doubt  the  old  lady  had  fears 

I  'd  not  treat  her  daughter  too  well. 
Her  father  looked  grateful  and  proud, 

As  much  as  to  say,  "It  is  well; 
Let  the  tones  of  my  anvil  ring  loud, 

Let  it  sound  like  a  sweet  marriage  bell." 


So  after  the  cake  had  been  passed, 

And  after  the  folks  had  done  kissing, 
All  the  youngsters  departed  at  last, 

Then  I  saw  my  Lucinda  was  missing. 
But  her  mother  came  round  pretty  soon, 

And  said  it  was  time  to  retire ; 
That  Lucinda  was  up  in  her  room, 

(But  I  wanted  to  stay  by  the  fire ! ) 


I  marched  up  the  stairs  like  a  martyr 
Thinking  of  faggot  and  stake, 

Wishing  the  crowd  had  staid  longer, 

Or  until  the  next  morning  should  break  ; 


87 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DAT. 

Then  I  opened  the  door  on  the  sly, 
And  there  was  Lucinda  abed, 

And  knowing  no  doubt  it  was  I, 

She  pulled  the  clothes  over  her  head. 


I  took  a  good  look  at  the  bed, 

And  saw  on  the  floor  (jueerish  linen — 
I  must  not  tell  everything,  George, 

Or  else  you  will  call  me  a  villian  ; 
But  I  thought  if  I  took  off  my  clothes, 

Luanda  might  get  up  before  me, 
And  if  she  got  into  my  pants, 

All  the  men  in  creation  would  bore  me: 


So  I  rolled  myself  up  in  a  quilt, 

And  laid  myself  down  on  the  floor — 
Dear  George,  you  '11  excuse  me  I  think, 

For  I  never  was  married  before. 
But  do  n't  tell  of  this  for  your  life  ; 

I  know  if  I  live  till  to-night, 
I  'm  determined  to  sleep  with  my  wife — 

Pray  keep  this  from  old  Mrs.  White ! 


THE  RIGHT  MAN  IN  THE  RIGHT  PLACE. 


(The  Hon.  John  Y.  Smith,  who  was  editor  of  the  Madison  Argus,  and 
one  of  the  soundest  men  in  Wisconsin,  offered  himself  as  an  independent 
candidate  for  the  office  of  Bank  Comptroller,  whereupon  Pump  Carpenter, 
then  sub  rosa  of  the  Patriot,  set  himself  up  for  State  Prison  Commis- 
sioner, for  the  reason,  as  Pump  said,  that  Smith  would  send  all  the  bankers 
to  Waupun,  and  he  oug-ht  to  be  there  to  take  care  of  them.) 


Says  Pump  to  John  Y.,  "You  cannot  deny 

But  from  lowest  estate  I  ha've  risen  ; 
You  ought,  from  the  ranks,  to  be  placed  o'er  the  banks, 

And  /ought  to  go  to — State  Prison !" 


"Ah,  yes,"  said  John  Y.,  to  Pump  in  reply, 
"If  the  people  did  but  understand  us, 

There  is  n't  a  doubt  but  the  plan  you  Ve  marked  out 
Would  be  about  where  they  would  land  us ! " 


ONE  HUNDRED  DEGREES  IN  THE 
SHADE. 

Gracious  !     This  weather  is  confounded  hot ! 

Which  can  be  proven  by  my  good  friend  Wheeler, 
Who  does  the  local  sometimes — sometimes  not; 

He  wrote  the  "  Chronicles,"  a  sort  of  feeler 
For  Western  fame ;  and  has  it,  too,  if  one  may  guess 
My  what  is  said  of  it  by  all  the  local  Press. 

/ 
Wheeler,  come  out  and  bring  a  fount  of  soda — 

But  one  thing  I  will  whisper  here,  snl>  rosa — 
Leave  Angeline  at  home,  and  also  Rhoda, 

Tell  them  when  men  are  gone  things  are  so  cozy. 
Then  a-fishing  we  will  go,  wheresoe'er  you  like, 
You  may  keep  the  suckers,  and  I  will  take  the  pike  (?). 

But  I  should  like  to  see  the  chap  whose  grit 
Is  fierce  enough,  in  this  infernal  weather, 

At  that  old  desk  to  undertake  to  sit, 

Chained  down,  as  old  Brooks  used  to  tie  his  wether  ; 

Prometheus  like,  you  are  bound  to  dullest  prose, 

While  globes  of  perspiration  trickle  off  your  nose. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DAY.  9i 

Tlicre's  white-haired  Rublee,  of  the  State  Journal, 

Who  writes  like  rolling  off  a  greasy  log, 
And  reading  it,  one  swears  by  the  Eternal — 

As  Jackson  did,  who  was  a  wicked  dog, 
How  passing  strange  it  is  those  clever  fellows 
Should  write  such  good  stuff,  unless  they  're  blown  by 
bellows ! 

And  I  '11  be  dogged  if  Pomeroy,  who  was  witty, 

And  wrote  sharp  things  before  this  dreadful  weather, 
Has  n't  given  out  and  melted  !     What  a  pity  ! 

No  more  he'll  come  to  time  with  "  Brick  Dust"  or  a 

ditty, 

But  all  his  heavy  work  is  like  a  feather ! 
Take  my  advice,  dear  Brick,   and  soak  your  massive 

head 
Beside  some  raft  in  rolling  Mississippi's  bed. 

I  pity  people  who  have  got  the  itch, 

And  cannot  scratch  because  they  are  so  lazy ; 

If  one  was  but  a  fool,  like  Tommy  Fitch, 
Or,  better  still,  like  Billy  Johnson,  crazy, 

Why,  then  he  would  not  know  the  weather  is  so  hot, 

Nor  that  the  atmosphere  is  boiling  like  a  pot ! 


9  2  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  Y. 

Gracious  !  I  cannot  write  !  I  'm  all  a-lather  ; 

Besides,  old  Hunks  is  coming  up  the  stairs — 
I  wish  the  dickens  had  him  and  his  blather; 

How  true  misfortunes  always  hunt  in  pairs. 
I  wish  that  I  could  live  where  Sir  John  Franklin  died, 
I  'd  bathe  these  burning  limbs  in  Arctic's  frozen  tide. 


AN  EDITORS  REVERIE  OVER  A  BATCH  OF 
LETTERS. 


ANSWERS    TO    CORRESPONDENTS. 

High  sails  the  Moon,  the  Queen  of  Night, 
And  bathes  the  city  in  her  light; 
The  streets  are  silent  once  again, 
No  more  disturbed  by  tread  of  men ; 
The  stars  are  on  their  glorious  track, 
But  we  from  all  their  beauty  back 
Must  turn,  to  pen  and  written  page, 
Of  peasant,  statesman,  and  of  sage, 
And  by  this  glittering  gas-tly  taper, 
Do  our  work  upon  the  paper. 

I. 

First,  a  sweet  maid  at  Beaver  Dam 
Writes  us  a  line  about  her  Sam, 
Who,  she  says,  upon  her  honor, 
Has  put  this  shameful  slight  upon  her — 


94 


77y.fi:  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T. 

To-vvit :     After  courting  her  all  winter, 

He 's  now  waiting  on  Susan  Taintor ; 

And  both  are  often  seen  together, 

Walking  out  in  pleasant  weather, 

And  when  the  night  is  dark  and  late, 

He  kisses  Susan  o'er  the  gate. 

Now  this  maiden  wants  to  know 

If  she  shall  not  let  Samuel  go 

To  grass,  and  find  another  chap, 

And,  if  he 's  constant,  set  her  cap  ? 

Of  course  we  're  free  to  give  advice, 

Without  money  and  without  price ; 

And  we  should  say  this  naughty  man 

Better  get  Susan  if  he  can ; 

And  our  correspondent  fair, 

If  Sam  should  come  to  see  her  there, 

Then  in  his  face  the  door  must  slam, 

And  say,  "  Begone,  you  Beaver  Damn"-(ite). 

II. 

Here's  another,     Do  n't  we  know  it  ? 
This  is  written  by  a  poet, 
When  his  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy — 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DAT. 

Unless  he 's  got  the  influenza — 
Rolls  aloft  towards  Parnassus, 
Which  he  scales  with  his  Pegasus, 
Or,  if  we  judge  him  by  his  speed, 
He 's  riding  a  velocipede. 
He  says  he  "writ"  it  in  great  haste, 
Because  he'd  not: much  time  to  waste, 
But  if  we  pay  him  well  for  these, 
He  will  try  and  write  to  please; 
And  our  paper  will  be  better 
By  printing  his  poetic  letter. 

III. 

And  now  we  take  another  up — 
A  man  has  lost  his  terrier  pup, 
The  color  black,  the  nose  turned  up ; 
Cropped  of  ear  and  short  of  tail, 
Aged  six  months,  and  a  male, 
Knows  good  victuals  like  a  book, 
Answers  to  the  name  of  "  Snook"  ; 
At  fighting  he  's  no  small  potatoes, 
Can  whip  his  weight  in  alligators. 
Can't  we  advertise  the  critter, 
And  take  a  pup  from  the  next  litter  ? 


95 


96  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

IV. 

In  this  a  woman  wants  divorce ; 
The  man  is  drunken,  brutal,  coarse, 
The  wife  would  feign  conditions  alter, 
And  slip  her  matrimonial  halter, 
And  seek  again  those  pleasant  springs 
Where  Hymen  leaves  behind  no  stings. 
There  is  no  money  to  divide, 
Only  they  two  and  one  beside, 
But  that  one  ?     Ah,  there 's  the  rub, 
What  will  become  of  little  bub  ? 
Can't  we  take  this  human  splinter, 
And  make  of  him  a  first-class  printer  ? 
A  follower  of  Guttenberg 
She  wants  her  son,  Tom  McClurg,  to  be. 
And  then  she  tells  us  how  her  life 
Was  free  from  misery  and  strife, 
Until  she  gave  her  hand  away, 
And  since  has  seen  no  happy  day ; 
Things  have  gone  from  bad  to  worse, 
And  now  she  seeks  to  end  the  curse, 
By  calling  back  her  misspent  love. 
We  have  no  answer  to  the  above, 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T. 

But  drop  the  letter  in  the  basket, 
With  a  wish  she  had  not  asked  it. 
Oh,  Cupid,  Cupid !     Art  thou  blind, 
Or  filled  with  malice  toward  our  kind, 
That  thou  should'st  make  a  fearful  blunder, 
And  tear  our  heart-strings  all  asunder  ? 


97 


A    VALENTINE  AND  ITS  ANSWER. 

An  impressible  bachelor  addressed  the  following  lines 
to  a  dashing  young  widow  on  St.  Valentine's  day  : 

TO    ST.    VALENTINE. 

Upon  this  day,  when  all  the  lads  and  lassies 
Tell  thee,  St.  Valentine,  how  their  love  surpasses 

All  other  loves,  oh  Saint,  may  I  not  tell 
How  Love's  torch  in  my  heart  has  lit  a  flame 
For  one — best  of  her  sex — a  beauteous  dame, 

Who  doth  upon  the  mem'ry's  tablet  dwell  ? 

Dear  Saint,  help  me  to  win  the  citadel 
Of  her  heart,  and  I  '11  ever  bless  thy  name, 
And  herald  it  upon  the  trump  of  fame! 


A  stranger  I,  who  ne'er  in  friendly  grasp 
Have  held  her  dear  hand,  or  felt  its  thrilling  clasp, 
And  from  her  eye  have  only  caught  one  beam, — 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T.  99 

Have  but  once  gazed  upon  her  blushing  cheek, 
Her  rosy  lip,  her  winning  smiles — that  speak 
To  my  charmed  heart,  and  fill  it  with  a  dream 
Of  untold  happiness,  that  makes  it  seem 
As  though  an  angel  form  from  Paradise, 
Had  with  her  beauties  gladdened  my  poor  eyes. 


I  've  been  in  camps  and  on  the  field  of  death, 
Have  felt  the  "  shattering  shell's  volcanic  breath," 

Have  heard  the  long  roll  beat  "  war's  wild  alarms," 
Calling  the  soldier  to  the  battle  line, — 
But  Saint,  I  'd  rather  hear  that  voice  of  thine, 

From  Love's  own  camp  call  out,  "  To  arms  ! 

And  thou  shalt  win  the  maid  with  all  her  charms, 
To  love  thee  all  thy  life,  for  she  '11  be  thine 
In  truth;  be  thou  her  faithful  Valentine." 


At  thy  call,  dear  Saint,  how  quick  to  arms  I  'd  fly, 
And  for  the  dear  one's  love  do  anything — but  die ! 

And  if  I  won,  what  happiness  were  mine ! 
To  love,  and  to  be  loved  by  her,  were  bliss 
Indeed,  and  then  to  sip  the  nectared  kiss 


TOO  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

Upon  her  rosy  lips  I  'd  ne'er  decline, 
But  ever  bless  thy  gift,  St.  Valentine, 
With  all  the  love  of  my  poor  heart,  and  seek 
No  other  rose  than  that  upon  her  cheek. 


CHEROKEE. 


This  musical  epistle  the  lady  sent  to  the  author  with 
the  request  that  he  would  make  an  appropriate  rejoinder. 
He  returned  the  subjoined  : 

TO  "CHEROKEE." 

Dear  Sir :    T  is  vain  I  seek  to  know  your  name — 

I  cannot  guess  it  by  your  style  or  measure, 
But  your  kind  words  have  set  my  soul  aflame 
With  passions  that  my  reason  cannot  tame, 
And  which  I  now  acknowledge  without  shame, 

And  long  that  you  shall  own  me  for  your  treasure ; 
I  hail  the  gods  that  did  not  wait  or  faint, 
But  made  good  Valentine  our  glorious  Saint ! 

I  like  your  story  and  I  like  your  taste, 

And  "Mrs.  Cherokee"  would  suit  me  quite; 
But  now  I  beg  of  you  to  make  due  haste, 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DAT.  IQI 

And  wed  me  ere  my  love  shall  run  to  waste, 

And  let  us  live  the  bliss  I  cannot  write ; 
Come  down  to-morrow  with  your  bow  and  arrow, 
And  let  us  live  awhile  on  love's  own  marrow ! 

Ah,  who  can  paint  the  joy  when  in  our  wig- 
Warn  we  shall  eat  our  humble  evening  meal  ? 

But  when  there 's  fire-water  'neath  your  wig, 

And  you  begin  to  dance  a  drunken  jig, 

Or  with  your  tomahawk  of  burnished  steel, 

You  smash  my  skull  in,  in  your  drunken  revel, 

No  doubt  I  'd  think  you  then  a  savage  devil ! 

I  think  I  see  you  now  in  gorgeous  paint, 

Dressed  in  a  breech-clout  made  of  buckskin  leather; 
And  stalking  forth  as  stately  as  a  saint, 
You  tread  the  war-path  with  no  sad  complaint, 

While  from  your  hair  protrudes  the  eagle  feather — 
Free  as  your  native  hills,  where  sweetest  posies  blow, 
And  most  as  naked,  if  I  dared  to  tell  you  so. 

And  I  would  be  your  squaw,  without  a  hoop — 
Except  the  war-whoop  of  your  ancient  tribe; 
The  sap  trough  I  would  hollow  with  a  scoop, 


102  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DAT. 

And  tie  my  blanket  in  a  simple  loop, 

As  at  my  back  the  pappoose  of  our  tribe 
Should  stick  its  head  above  its  flimsy  coop, 
While  from  a  recent  dog  I  boiled  your  soup ! 

But  there  is  one  thing  more — a  mere  iota, 

That  I  must  know  before  I  wed  you  : 
Was  my  "Big  Injun"  one  of  that  vile  quota 
That  murdered  helpless  babes  in  Minnesota, 

And  scalped  the  women  who  had  kindly  fed  you  ? 
If  you  had  any  hand  in  that  foul  work, 
The  "  arms  "  I  'd  call  you  to  would  be  a  dirk ! 

But  no  !     Forgive  me,  my  good  "  Cherokee," 
I  pray  you  pardon  this  poor  weak  distrust ; 
Oh,  let  us  fly  where  you  and  I  shall  be 
From  Fashion's  cold  restraint  forever  free — 
Where  all  is  simple  love  and  purest  trust; 
Then  we  shall  dwell  apart  from  this  world's  scorn, 
And  I  will  wed  you,  darling — in  a  horn  ! 


A  PARODY. 


(The  following  parody  ot  Leigh  Hunt's  famous  poem,  "Abou  ben 
Adhem,"  was  written  on  reading  the  trial  of  a  man  for  selling  lager  beer 
without  a  license,  who  was  acquitted  on  the  ground  that  beer  was  not  an 
intoxicating  beverage.) 


Johnny  B.  Johnson — may  his  tribe  increase — 

Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 

And  saw,  beside  a  table  sitting  near, 

A  German  angel,  drinking  lager  beer, 

And  writing  fast  within  a  book  of  gold. 

The  recent  verdict  made  said  Johnny  bold ; 

He  asked,  "  What  do  you  write  ?  "     The  angel  made  a 

pause, 

Then  said,  "  The  names  of  those  who  love  the  temper- 
ance cause," 

."  And  is  mine  there  ? "     "I  cannot  find  it  here ! " 
"Then  write  me  one  who  sells  the  best  of  beer." 
The  angel  vanished ;  but  she  came  next  night, 
And  filled  the  room  with  a  great  wak'ning  light ; 
She  showed  the  names  of  those  who  were  so  blest, 
And  lo !  said  Johnny's  name  led  all  the  rest ! 


THA  T  FIFTY  DOLLAR  PRIZE  ADDRESS. 


(Messrs.  Hurd  &  Riley.  managers,  offered  a  prize  of  fifty  dollars  for  a 
poem  to  be  read  at  the  opening  of  thf  Academy  of  Music.  Twelve  poems 
were  offered  to  the  committee,  which  consisted  of  five  well  known  Mil- 
waukee lawyers.) 


Five  lawyers,  all  adepts  in  Blackstone's  art, 

But  not  that  other  art  with  "  stone "  left  off, 
Are  asked  by  Hurd  &  Riley  to  take  part 
t  And  give  their  theatre  an  easy  start ; 

To  sit  in  judgment  round  the  golden  trough, 
Where  poets  come  to  feed,  with  frenzy  in  their  eyes, 
And  bring  their  labored  lines  to  win  the  offered  prize. 

The  prize  is  fifty,  and  the  lines  the  same ; 

No  matter  if  they  do  exceed  that  number, 
Some  clever  man  will  win  a  deathless  name, 
And  write  his  there,  upon  the  scroll  of  fame, 

Where  those  the  ages  love  delight  to  slumber ; 
And  all  the  coming  bards,  among  the  great  and  just, 
Will  make  his  grave  their  Mecca,  worshiping  his  dust ! 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DAT.  105 

And  by  "  his  dust,"  I  do  not  mean  the  gold 

That  he  may  win  through  this  astute  Committee ; 
Nor  when  he  writes  his  fifty  "links,"  all  told, 
Worth  just  one  dollar  each  in  Riley's  gold, 
Or  lugs  in  Shakspeare's  characters  of  old, 
To  please  the  literati  of  a  city, 
Who  know  too  well  a  poem  from  a  ditty ; 
But  by  "his  dust,"  of  course  I  mean  his  last  remains, 
Such  as  people  worship  who  've  got  more   cash   than 
brains ! 

The  verses  must  be  blank — and  so  the  prize 
Shall  be  to  many  who  will  strive  to  win  it ; 
And  they,  no  doubt,  will  read  in  blank  surprise 

The  verdict,  and the  judges  eyes 

With  disappointment  they  cannot  disguise, 

And  swear  they  know  there  's  some  collusion  in  it ! 
They  think  their  verses  are  immortal  as  the  stars 
That  bum  within  the  range  of  Neptune,  or  of  Mars ! 

And  so  these  legal  savans  leave  their  writs, 

And  find  eleven  cases  on  the  docket — 
Eleven  poems  from  Wisconsin  wits, 


106  THE  POEMS  OF  A   DAY. 

All  filled  with  figures  bold  and  clever  hits ; 
And  to  decide  before  the  money  quits 

Young  Riley's  purse,  to  find  another  pocket, 
Is  why  this  grave  Committee  sits. 

If  one  's  a  line  too  long,  why  they  must  dock  it, 
And  not  allow  the  Stage  to  swindle  from  the  Muse, 
But  see  trie  bards  get  out  of  Riley  all  their  dues. 


"  All  hail  the  Stage  !  the  world  epitomized — "  * 

Begins  the  Chair,  the  dignified  Judge  Hubbell. 
Cries  one,  whose  wits  good  brandy  has  capsized, 
"  Hold  on  !  'All  hail  the  stage .?'  Why,  I  'm  (hie)  s'prised! 
That  fellow  's  cussed  fool  !  can't  be  disguised. 

'  Hail  the  stage  ?'  likely  we  '11  take  the  trouble 

To  'hail  a  stage,'  when  Col.  (hie)  Walker  runs  the  cars ; 
It 's  much  the  cheapest  (hie) — besides,  it  saves  the  jars  !" 


"  For  like  produces  like  by  fixed  law,"  * 

The  Chairman  reads  again,  nor  heeds  the  talking — 
"Yes,  it's  a  fact — zoological  law, 
He 's  right  there,  every  time ;  (hie)  who  ever  saw 


*  Copied  from  the  Prize  Address. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 


107 


A  tiger  in  his  life,  without  a  paw 

With  which  to  do  his  regular  walking  ? 
Or  unfledged  birds  who  had  not  learned  to  caw  ? 

He  's  right  there,  gentlemen — no  use  talking, 
I  move  he  wins  the  prize  (hie).     Say,  Pratt,  what  d'  you 

think  ? 
Is  n't  he  great  on  sausage  (hie) — that  is  to  say,  on  links  ? 

"  Of  histrionic  art  and  poet's  bays — "  * 
"  Egad !  I  like  that — it 's  very  clever ; 
Our  bards  are  bound  to  live  out  all  their  days, 
If  they  can  drive  about  their  spanking  bays. 
Always  liked  the  color  (hie) — hate  iron  grays — 

Good  for  Kenosha  (hie)  now  or  never ! 
(Do  n't  care  a  cuss  what  Pratt  or  Hubbell  says), 
Should  be  well  matched,  and  gentle  in  their  ways. 
I  say,  old  Judge,  let 's  put  these  poems  in  your  hat, 
And  'dopt  the  one  that 's  first  picked  out  by  Pratt ! " 

Immortal  gods !  ye  nurtured  Hood  and  Keats, 

And  gave  to  merry  Burns  ambrosial  marrow — 
Are  there  no  longer  rich  Parnassian  sweets, 


*  Copied  from  the  Prize  Address. 


to8  THE  POEMS  OF  A    DA  T. 

Such  as  the  Muses'  offspring  ever  eats, 
Reserved  for  us  ?     Or  have  the  udder's  teats, 
At  which  the  poets  nurse,  gone  dry  or  farrow  ? 

So  when  our  striplings  suck  they  get  no  succor ! 

Though  one  gets  fifty  for  a  mental  pucker ! 


A  DOG-GEREL  PROTEST  AGAINST  THE 
DOG  LAW.* 


There  met  last  night,  just  after  dark, 
Under  the  trees  in  the  Capitol  park, 
A  lot  of  brutes,  of  the  tribe  of  bark, 

To  hold  a  grand  convention. 
There  were  dogs  in  black,  and  dogs  in  bay, 
Young  Bose,  and  Towser,  and  old  dog  Tray- 
The  very  one,  so  the  books  do  say, 
That  got  a  terrible  whaling  one  day, 
Because  his  company  was  too  gay ; 
A  thing  not  uncommon,  by  the  way, 

But  a  very  slight  indiscretion ; 
And  stopping  to  see  what  was  the  matter, 
I  overheard  a  general  clatter 
About  that  dog  law  in  the  Senate, 
And  its  advocate,  Mr.  Bennett ! 

So,  just  before  the  Moon  was  up, 

Or  the  Great  Bear  had  dipped  his  cup, 


*  Written  while  the  dog  law  was  before  the  Senate 


!  I0  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

Appeared  a  solemn-looking  pup, 

Whose  tail  was  bobbed  and  hairy  ; 
And  putting  on  a  pompous  air, 
He  called  a  Bull  Dog  to  the  chair, 
Who  looked  as  if  he  did  n't  care 
A  "cuss"  for  anybody  there. 
A  setter  was  Secretary. 

The  Chairman  gave  a  hasty  growl, 
As  from  his  eyes  there  flashed  a  scowl, 
His  fellows  answered  with  a  howl, 

As  he  took  up  the  gavel ; 
And  each  one  sitting  on  his  rump — 
Except  the  Speaker  on  the  stump, 
Who  proved  himself  a  perfect  trump — 

They  sat  round  in  the  gravel. 

"  Dogs :  "  said  he,  "  of  every  class1, 
Dogs,  whose  collars  are  of  brass, 
Who  live  on  mutton  fed  on  grass, — 
In  yonder  Senate,  where  they  gas, 
Strange  events  have  come  to  pass ! " 

"  Hear !  Hear ! "  they  barked  together. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  Y. 

"  I  swear  it  by  yon  moon  so  pale  ! 
I  swear  it  by  my  bushy  tail ! 
That  they  have  got  a  bill  by  Tayl- 

-Or  some  other  old  bell-wether, 
By  which  they  think  to  use  us  up, 
From  oldest  dog  to  youngest  pup — 
All,  all  must  drink  of  Lethe's  cup, 

We  must  all  die  together. 

"  I  sat  last  night  within  the  bar, 
And  heard  the  mighty  ones  who  spar, 
Until  the  heavens  seemed  to  jar, 

About  the  rights  of  niggers ; 
But  now  they  've  turned  Sambo  away, 
And  taken  up  'gainst  old  dog  Tray, 
Swearing  that  they  will  kill  and  slay 
Each  dog  that  happens  in  their  way, 

With  poison,  clubs  and  triggers ! 

"  They  seemed  to  think  of  nought  but  wool, 
Of  pretexts  they  are  always  full, 
Declaring  war  on  Trip  and  Bull, 

Old  Watch,  and  Buck,  and  Nero  ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

Each  one  did  seem  to  take  his  fill, 
Tearing  away  at  dogs,  until 
There  arose  little  Senator  Gill, 
Who  gave  the  Woolly  Heads  a  pill, 
And,  for  all  I  know,  is  talking  still, 

Speaking  like  a  hero  ! " 
Three  barks  were  had  for  Mr.  Gill, 
And  promptly  echoed  by  the  hill. 


Bull  Dog  sat  down,  when  there  sprang  up 
A  dirty  little  brindle  pup : 
"  I  tell  you  now,  I  think  it  best 
That  we  shall  make  a  strong  protest 
Against  the  action  of  the  Senate, 
As  modified  by  Mr.  Bennett ; 
And  then,  if  they  should  not  abate, 
We  '11  put  a  mad  dog  at  the  gate, 
And  if  they  happen  to  be  late, 
A  story  sad  they  may  relate ; 
He  '11  snap  the  legs  of  every  man, 
And  they  may  kill  him  if  they  can, 
Down  with  them  all,  from  Fratt  to  Cox, 
We  '11  chaw  their  hogs  and  kill  their  flocks  ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T. 

We  '11  stray  into  their  cellar  passage, 

If  they  make  us  into  sausage. 

As  death  's  the  doom  of  every  one, 

A  short  life  and  a  merry  one ! 

And  for  the  strychnine  they  give  Toby 

We  '11  pay  'em  back  in  hydrophobia ! " 

Loud  struck  the  faithful  city  clock, 
Loud  crowed  the  lusty  Shanghai  cock, 
As  on  the  air,  so  calm  and  still, 
Three  cheers  arose  for  Mr.  Gill ; 
And  curling  tails  upon  their  backs, 
They  stealthy  homeward  made  their  tracks  ; 
When,  finding  Farmer  Brown  asleep, 
They  turned  aside  and  killed  his  sheep ! 


SOMETHING. 


(Written  on  the  hack  of  a  stump-tail  one-dollar  bill  during  the  hank 
panic  in  i86a.) 


One  more  unfortunate 

Cannot  be  passed, 
And  the  confidence  game 

Is  ended  at  last. 

Pay  it  out  tenderly, 

Change  it  with  care — 
Printed  so  splendidly, 

With  the  name  of  Eau  Claire  ! 

Do  n't  you  remember 

How  broker  and  banker — 
How  Mitchell,  and  all  of  them — 

All  those  who  hanker 
After  the  life  blood  of  us, 

Declared  that  December 
Would  see  them  receiving  this 

As  good  legal  tender  ? 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T. 

Alas  !  for  the  rarity 
Of  banker's  charity ! 
What  monstrous  disparity 

Between  rich  and  poor ! 
Alas  !  for  secession, 
And  that  woeful  expression — 

"At  par,  till  December ! " 

Pity  the  stump-tail 

Wild-cat  and  pup ; 
Though  now  it  is  down, 

Once  it  was  up, 
And  the  profits  came  swimmingly 

Out  of  the  poor, 
And  bankers  looked  smilingly 

Out  of  the  door. 

Pay  this  out  hurriedly — 

Do  n't  wait  a  minute, 
For  nobody  knows 

How  much  value  is  in  it. 
If  your  neighbor  would  borrow 
Of  you  till  to-morrow, 


1 1 6  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  Y. 

Do  n't  cause  yourself  sorrow, 
And  refuse  his  request; 

Lend  it  all, 

Spend  it  all, 
It  is  par  till  December. 

Pity  the  bastard, 

It's  got  nary  a  "par," 
It 's  doomed  to  be  plastered 

At  home  and  afar. 
Pay  it  out  quickishly, 
Fairly — not  trickishly, 

Making  a  note  of  it. 
Pay  it  out  tenderly, 

Change  it  with  care, 
Printed  so  splendidly, 

With  the  name  of  Eau  Claire. 


PART  IV. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


LIFE. 

We  are  launching  our  ship  on  the  ocean  of  Time, 
Hope    stands   at   the   helm   with   her   gay   pennant 
streaming, 

And  her  prow  points  away  to  that  fanciful  clime, 

Where  the  mirage  of  Paradise  looms  in  the  gleaming! 

And  we  talk  of  the  golden  sands  under  her  keel, 
Of  the  beautiful  islands  we  pass  in  our  sailing, 

And  the  haven  of  faith  where  her  anchor  will  feel 
The  rest  that  poor  mortals  are  ever  bewailing. 

Oh,  the  sea  is  like  glass,  and  the  winds  sweet  and  fair, 
Filling  our  sails  with  the  brightness  of  glory ; 

And  the  syrens  of  hope  make  enchanting  the  air, 
As  we  glide  with  the  spell  of  their  wonderful  story. 


120  THE  POEMS  OF  A    DA  T. 

But  the  beautiful  ship  that  Youth  sent  to  the  sea, 
To  bring  back  rich  freight  from  the  shore  of  success, 

Is  drifting  in  fragments  upon  the  bleak  lee, 
And  the  solitude  smothers  the  cry  of  distress. 

And  Patience  her  vigil  keeps  there  by  the  beach, 
And  peers  for  the  sail  that  is  never  returning, 

With    her  eyes  dim  with    age   and    the   sea-bird's  wild 

screech, 
No  answer  comes  back  to  the  call  of  her  yearning. 


HOPE  DEFERRED  MAKETH  THE  HEART 
SICK. 

'Twas  in  the  merry  month  of  May, 
That  Robert  Treat  and  Katy  Clay 
Returned  from  church  one  Sabbath  day. 

And  when  the  Sun  had  hid  his  face, 

And  tea  was  taken  after  grace, 

The  old  folks  sought  their  beds  apace. 

But  not  until  old  Deacon  Clay 

Had  been  prevailed  upon  to  say 

That  Kate  might  marry  Bob  some  day. 

So  Bob  proposed,  if  not  too  soon, 
The  wedding  day  should  be  in  June. 
(The  maiden  hummed  an  old  church  tune.) 

Or,  if  't  were  better  to  delay, 
Then  have  it  Independence  Day — 
A  time  all  glorious  and  gay. 


122  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DAY. 

If  that 's  too  soon,  then  brown  October, 
When  Kate's  young  brother,  a  bold  rover, 
Had  promised  to  return  more  sober. 

Just  then  the  Moon  hid  in  the  west, 
A  curly  head  dropped  on  his  breast — 
"  Dear  Bob,  /  like  this  month  the  best ! " 

So,  to  conclude :     In  church  one  day, 

The  parson  7raz/-ed  Katy  Clay 

To  a  new  name,  in  the  month  of  May. 

MORAL. 

Young  man,  the  moral  of  this  lay 
Is  that  you  shall  not  brook  delay, 
When  talking  of  your  wedding  day, 
But  face  the  music  right  .away. 


THE  SNOW-STORM. 

See  how  it  snows — 

How  it  whirls, 
And  how  it  blows. 

See  the  girls, 

With  their  curls, 

Turning  gray ; 
Their  cheeks  are  all  aglow, 
In  contrast  with  the  snow, 
And  they  laugh  and  they  chat 

As  they  go. 

Boys  are  off  to  school, 

Through  the  drifts ; 
Mittens  tied  together 
With  a  woolen  tether, 
Scorning  wind  and  weather, 

And  the  snow; 
With  dinner-pail  and  sled, 
Plunging  over  head — 
Over  head  and  ears  in  snow ! 


124 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T. 

Here  is  Farmer  Gray, 

With  his  sleigh, 

And  on  the  hay 

Sits  Katy  Gray, 
Grayer  than  old  Gray, 
But  not  a  tenth  as  old. 
She  is  crying  with  the  cold, 
But  her  mouth  is  now  made  up 

For  a  smile. 

And  the  horses  are  as  white 
As  a  ghost  at  dead  of  night, 

With  the  snow ; 

And  the  bells  are  still  as  mice— 
Do  n't  you  see  they  're  full  of  ice, 

Ice  and  frozen  snow  ? 
And  their  smoking  necks  they  shake, 
But  no  music  can  they  make 
With  those  strings  of  frozen  bells. 

See,  how  it  snows, 
And  how  it  sifts, 
How  it  eddies 
Into  drifts, 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

With  a  whirling,  circling  gust, 
Round  the  corner  of  the  house ; 
And  the  panes  are  covered  deep, 
So  the  children  cannot  peep 

Through  the  glass; 
And  the  wind  goes  sighing  by, 
With  its  burden  from  the  sky, 
Its  clouds  of  feathery  snow, 
Whirling,  filling,  sifting, 
Fleecy  showers  drifting — 

See,  see  it  snow  ! 


I25 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  TWENTY-EIGHT. 

Why  does  no  lover  stop  at  the  gate, 
To  court  this  maiden  of  twenty-eight  ? 
Her  eyes  are  soft  and  her  soul  is  chaste, 
With  plump,  round  limbs  and  a  slender  waist, 
A  cultured  mind  and  a  critic's  taste, 
A  wealth  of  affection  going  to  waste ; 
Yet  over  her  hangs  some  fiat  of  fate, 
That  keeps  her  a  maiden  at  twenty-eight. 

She  lacks  not  beauty,  she  lacks  not  wit, 

Her  heart  is  true,  and  not  counterfeit ; 

And  the  soul  in  her  eye  is  forever  lit 

With  the  lustre  of  virtue  back  of  it ; 

Her  lips  are  ripe  as  a  cherry  irr  June, 

And  her  voice  has  caught  the  winsome  tune 

Of  the  birds  that  sing  in  the  summer  air, 

And  the  gold  of  the  sun  rests  down  on  her  hair ; 

And  yet,  as  things  go,  it  is  getting  late 

For  my  friend,  the  maiden  of  twenty-eight. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T. 

And  the  seasons  come  and  go  apace, 
But  on  this  virgin  they  leave  no  trace, 
Not  a  furrow  on  her  handsome  face, 
Nor  yet  take  from  her  a  single  grace, 
But  she  seems' to  ripen  in  the  race 
With  Time's  swift  feet's  relentless  pace, 
Never  more  fair  than  at  the  present, 
But  somehow  neither  prince  nor  peasant 
Stops  his  horse  at  her  cottage  gate, 
To  woo  this  maiden  of  twenty-eight. 

And  the  fields  and  woods  are  all  aglow 
With  the  breath  of  spring  that  makes  them  so ; 
The  blossoms  of  summer  come  and  go, 
And  the  wintry  sky  is  filled  with  snow ; 
And  the  hopes  of  mortals  rise  and  fall, 
'Tis  the  wish  of  Him  who  made  us  all ; 
But  disappointment  seems  to  wait 
On  this  maiden  fair  of  twenty-eight. 

She  sings  her  songs,  but  no  lover  hears, 
No  heart  is  touched  by  her  girlish  tears; 
Patiently  waits  through  the  lapse  of  years, 


I28  THE  POEMS  OF  A   DAT. 

And  gives  no  voice  to  her  brooding  fears. 

What  spirit  of  evil  comes  to  spoil 

And  break  the  thread  of  life's  tangled  coil  ? 

Is  there  no  one  in  want  of  a  mate, 

Who  will  seek  this  maiden  of  twenty-eight  ? 

What  hast  thou  in  store,  O  dull-eared  Fate, 
For  this  maiden  fair  who  must  watch  and  wait  ? 
Will  she  find  some  time  the  other  part 
Of  herself,  in  a  manly,  loving  heart  ? 
Are  the  matches  made  in  Heaven  above, 
And  are  angels  directing  the  course  of  love  ? 
Does  the  vulgar  hind  who  woos  his  mate, 
As  well  as  my  lordship  of  high  estate, 
Follow  the  beck  of  some  unseen  fate 
That  puzzles  us  all  with  its  strange  debate  ? 


WINTER. 


Old  Winter  is  dead,  that  grave  old  man, 
Whose  locks  were  so  white  and  gray ; 

He  looked  all  the  while  so  pale  and  wan, 

And  Spring,  we  fear,  with  her  watering-can, 
Helped  him  out  of  the  way. 

But  he  was  a  cold,  frozen-hearted  old  man— 
I  heard  Nature  say. 


He  lingered  awhile,  and  then  he  died, 

Lamented  by  many  a  beau ; 
December  wrung  her  hands  and  cried, 
But  March,  with  cold,  hard-hearted  pride, 
Dropped  not  a  tear,  or  even  sighed 

To  see  the  old  man  go ; 
But  his  death  is  noticed,  far  and  wide, 

With  heart-felt  woe. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

We  '11  see  him  no  more — he  is  dead  and  gone, 

No  longer  troubled  with  care  ; 
But  perhaps  his  son  will  come  along 
Next  fall,  to  cheer  the  busy  throng, 

And  gladden  the  hearts  of  the  fair; 
Then  go  to  the  place  where  his  fathers  have  gone- 

They'll  welcome  him  there. 

But  Spring,  the  coquette,  will  soon  rue  the  day 
That  she  drove  the  old  fellow  away, 

For  June  so  soon  comes  after  May, 

And  she  without  regret  or  delay, 
Will  drive  her  far,  far  away, 

And  she,  like  Winter,  must  wend  her  way 
Along  Time's  pathway. 

Then  Summer,  the  manhood  of  the  year, 

Will  reign  triumphant  his  day ; 
And  while  he  sojourns  amongst  us  here, 
Many  a  tie  of  kindred  dear 
Will  be  broken,  while  they,  cold  on  the  bier, 

Will  be  carried  away  to  decay, 
And  we  left  to  hope,  and  dream,  and  fear, 

Our  lives  away. 


HOUSE  CLEANING. 

No  peace,  no  rest, 

For  child,  or  guest ; 
No  pleasant  smiles  or  chat, 
No  gossiping  of  this  or  that, 

At  noon  or  night, 

But  a  bitter  blight, 

Like  a  sombre  pall, 

Has  fallen  upon  all, 
And  the  dark  domestic  sky 

Rumbles, 

And  grumbles, 

And  thunders  with  electric  passion  shocks, 
While  from  turret  to  foundation-stone  the  once-happy 
cottage  rocks. 

Such  a  ripping 
Up  of  carpets  from  the  floor — 

Such  a  dripping 
Of  suds,  and  sands  from  the  shore ; 


1 32  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

Such  a  scrubbing 
Of  every  nook  and  crevice  round  the  door — 

Such  a  rubbing 
Must  last,  methinks,  forevermore  ! 

In  the  parlor,  in  the  hall, 

In  the  chambers,  great  and  small — 

Confusion  reigneth  over  all ; 

Even  the  pictures  on  the  wall, 

At  this  potent  bugle  call, 

Come  down  and  stack  themselves  upon  the  floor, 
And  tables  tip  as  ne'er  before, 
While  chairs  are  stacked  before  the  door, 

And  books  in  calf  and  sheep, 

Are  shaken  from  their  sleep, 

And  heaped  like  Alps  on  Alps. 

No  after-dinner  snooze, 
No  papers  to  peruse, 

If  you  choose; 
No  dessert  at  the  meal, 
No  matter  how  you  feel, 
But  eat  what  you  catch ; 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DAT.  !33 

And  with  your  finger  on  the  latch, 

You  mutter  an  imprecation 

On  the  horrid  situation, 

And  stalk  into  the  street, 

Scowling  on  all  you  meet, 
But  praying  for  the  freedom  of  the  bird, 
Within  whose  quiet  nest  this  dire  confusion  is  not  heard. 


NEW  BOOKS. 


WAYSIDE  FLOWERS.     BY  CARKIE  CARLTON.     Milwaukee:    Strick- 
land &  Co.,  1862. 


The  Author  sends  her  gift  of  "  Wayside  Flowers," 

Culled  from  life's  garden  by  a  dainty  hand ; 
Each  is  a  gem  reared  in  Parnassian  bowers, 
Still  wet  and  fragrant  with  the  vernal  showers, 
To  lighten  for  us  some  despondent  hours, 

And  turn  to  gold  the  spirit's  barren  sand ; 
And  wise  is  he  who  in  this  world  of  ours, 
Despises  not  the  humblest  "  Wayside  Flowers  ! " 

Beside  the  poor  man's  cot  the  cheerful  robin  sings 

The  tunes  a  thousand  robins  sang  before ; 
Shall  we  despise  the  gushing  melody  that  springs 
From  her  full  throat,  and  turn  the  joy  it  brings 
To  hate,  because  she  soars  not  on  another's  wings, 
Or  trills  not  notes  ne'er  heard  upon  this  shore  ? 
The  Power  that  gave  the  nightingale  a  voice, 
Tuned  other  tongues  to  make  the  earth  rejoice. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

'T  is  little  things  that  make  our  lives  complete, 

And  not  a  battle  won  within  an  hour. 
The  sins  we  struggle  with,  the  ills  we  meet, 
The  cruel  snares  that  trip  our  wayward  feet, 
The  pelting  of  the  storm,  the  rattling  sleet, 

Are  turned  aside  but  by  a  constant  power ; 
And  so  the  sweets  we  quaff  are  from  life's  rill, 
And  not  from  oceans  that  the  rivers  fill. 

There  is  no  aim  at  high  Byronic  art, 

Nor  thundering  stanzas  in  Spencerian  style, 
But  each  a  lay,  uprising  from  the  heart, 
As  blooming  violets  from  the  wayside  start, 
Each  filling  up  its  mission  and  its  part, 

And  doing  that  which  God  designs  the  while. 
The  world  has  many  needs,  and  happy  he 
Who  gives  it  joy  with  humble  minstrelsy. 


THE  LATE  HON.  C.  C.  SHOLES.* 


I  drop  my  numbers  to  a  minor  key, 

To  speak  of  him  whose  tender  memory 

Is  like  a  brother's  to  us,  every  one. 

But  now,  since  he  is  gone,  and  death  has  won, 

Shall  we  not  keep  forever  on  our  rolls, 

And  make  immortal  there,  the  name  of  Sholes  ? 

He  was  my  friend  and  yours — the  friend  of  all, 

Whose  ear  was  ever  open  to  the  call 

Of  human  sympathy  and  human  love. 

He  stood  upon  our  soil  a  pioneer — 

How  much  we  owe  him  doth  not  yet  appear ; 

One  of  the  first  to  wield  a  trenchant  pen, 

Its  stroke  was  ever  for  the  good  of  men. 

His  was  an  honest,  sturdy,  truthful  soul, 

As  true  to  right  as  needle  to  the  pole. 

We  lay  the  cypress  on  his  vacant  chair, 

And  turn  to  our  own  work  with  earnest  prayer, 

That  each  may  be  as  patient,  strong  and  good 

As  he  whose  absence  mars  our  brotherhood. 


*  An  extract  from  a  Poem  read  before  the  .Editorial  Association  in  1869. 


TO  HORACE  RUB  LEE,  ON  HIS  DEPARTURE 
FOR  SWITZERLAND. 

Rublee,  the  time  has  come  to  break  the  spell, 
And  Pen  and  Press  unite  to  say  farewell ; 
The  voice  of  duty  calls,  and  you  obey, 
Vain  are  regrets  upon  this  parting  day. 

In  Zarmatt's  vales,  or  by  the  falls  of  Aar, 
Or  where  the  vine-clad  slopes  of  Jura  are, 
While  gazing  on  the  snow-capped  peaks  of  Berne, 
Our  prayers  will  follow  wheresoe'er  you  turn. 

Blow,  prosperous  winds,  and  fill  his  spreading  sails, 
Bear  him  o'er  calmest  seas  with  gentlest  gales, 
To  that  abode  beside  sweet  Alpine  heights, 
And  fill  his  soul  with  new  and  strange  delights. 

O  Switzerland  !     Land  of  historic  Tell ! 
Give  joy  to  him  the  West  sends  there  to  dwell; 
His  pen,  so  long  aflame  with  words  that  burn, 
Is  lying  idle,  waiting  his  return. 


BEN  SKINNER  AND  THE  SNAKE. 


There  was  a  man — a  gray  old  sinner, 

Whose  name,  for  short,  was  called  Ben  Skinner; 

Who  never  dared  to  eat  his  dinner 

Without  a  drop  of  brandy, 
Or  something  else  to  kill  the  gripe 
That  always  reveled  in  his  tripe, 
And  some  excuse  had  this  old  snipe 

For  keeping  his  liquor  handy. 


And  so  old  Ben  was  always  telling — 
Whene'er  you  spoke  of  liquor  selling, 
As  in  his  eyes  the  tears  were  welling, 

(His  eyes  were  always  weeping) 
How  drink  was  good  if  one  was  hot, 
Or  when  so  freezing  cold  you  got, 
You  'd  better  take  a  nip  than  not, 

The  equilibrium  keeping. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T. 

He  said  he  held  in  high  esteem, 
The  water  in  the  limpid  stream  ; 
For  washing  feet  or  making  steam, 

Nothing  he  higher  prized ; 
But  for  a  common  kind  of  drink, 
He  could  not  bring  himself  to  think — 
Just  here  he  gave  a  knowing  wink — 

That  gin  should  be  despised. 


One  day  old  Ben  had  been  to  town, 
And  treated  every  man  he  found, 
Until  there  lay  upon  his  crown 

A  brick  of  large  dimensions ; 
And  getting  most  sublimely  tight, 
This  old,  barefooted,  tipsy  wight 
Staggered  homeward  ere  the  night 

Should  block  his  good  intentions. 


Old  Ben  felt  tired  ere  he  got 
Half  way  across  the  pasture  lot, 
He  thought  within  himself  't  was  best 
To  stop  awhile  and  take  a  rest. 


T39 


140 


THE  POEMS  OF  A    DA  Y. 

So,  sitting  down  upon  a  stone 

With  moss  and  ivy  overgrown, 

He  said  the  jug  would  be  more  light, 

While  drinking  might  improve  his  sight, 

If  he  should  put  within  his  skin 

A  little  more  of  strychnine  gin. 


A  brilliant-colored  rattlesnake 
Lay  basking  by  that  stone,  awake. 
More  beautiful  his  golden  dyes 
Than  when  a  netted  dolphin  dies ; 
More  gorgeous  far  his  spots  of  green, 
Than  fascinated  bird  had  seen ; 
With  tapering  neck  and  flattened  head, 
He  lay  there  coiled  upon  his  bed  ; 
The  malice  of  his  eye  was  hid 
Beneath  the  overhanging  lid ; 
No  warning  with  his  tail  he  rung, 
Nor  threatened  with  his  forked  tongue, 
Until  upon  his  snug  retreat 
Old  Skinner  dropped  his  naked  feet ; 
Then  fiercely  that  dread  rattle  rang, 
And  in  Ben's  heel  he  stuck  his  fang. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

Old  Ben  had  just  wiped  out  his  mouth, 
In  which  he  felt  the  usual  drouth, 
And  elevating  jug  in  air, 
He  banished  trouble,  pain  and  care  ; 
And  turning  upward  toward  the  skies 
His  tear-bedimmed  and  scarlet  eyes, 
He  took  a  swig  that  made  him  feel 
Too  good  to  think  of  snake  or  heel ; 
Then  putting  back  the  cork  of  wood, 
He  hurried  home  as  best  he  could. 


The  rattlesnake,  with  glassy  eye, 
Slowly  uncoiled  himself  to  die ; 
Too  late  he  felt  his  doom  was  cast, 
And  he  had  met  his  fate  at  last ; 
Another  way  than  Scripture  said, 
Had  woman's  seed  bruised  serpent's  head. 
The  little  snakelets  gathered  round 
Where  writhed  the  old  one  on  the  ground ; 
Then  turning  to  its  young,  the  snake 
With  feeble  voice  a  warning  spake : 
"  This  dying  admonition  hug — 
Don't  bite  a  man  who  has  a  jug ! " 


141 


OLD  BROWN'S  CARPET  BAG.  * 


Ossawatamie  Brown — 

He  of  Kansas  renown, 

In  a  small  southern  town, 

Down  there  at  the  Ferry, 

Has  made  things  go  merry, 

By  unchaining  Jerry, 
Who  is  anxious  to  get  back  to  the  Niger ; 

And  this  crazy  old  man, 

With  his  thumb  on  the  trigger, 

And  a  band  of  eighteen— 

Just  three  whites  to  a  nigger, 
Has  taken  an  arsenal,  conquered  a  town, 
And  frightened  the  Government  all  the  way  down 
From  Jimmy  Buchanan  to  Henry  A.  Wise, 
Who,  when  he  heard  it,  went  to  damning  his  eyes, 


*  The  letters  found  in  old  John  Brown's  carpet-bag  showed  that  he  had 
been  in  correspondence  with  many  prominent  Abolitionists  before  he 
made  his  raid  on  Harper's  Ferry,  and  much  excitement  was  the  conse- 
quence. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

And  swearing  most  lustily  that  he  could  weep 
On  seeing  the  chivalry  acting  like  sheep  ! 


In  ancient  times  there  was  a  pass, 
Where  fought  the  brave  Leonidas ; 
And  Spartan  soldiers,  true  as  steel, 
Ne'er  turned  on  friend  or  foe  the  heel. 
There  at  Thermopylea  they  fell, 
As  history  doth  assure  us  well, 
And  Waterloo  and  Bunker  Hill 
The  page  of  carnage  well  does  fill ; 
And  song  and  ballad  love  to  tell 
How  Andrew  Jackson  fought  so  well — 
Entrenched  behind  the  cotton  wall, 
He  saw  his  foeman  flee  or  fall. 
But  all  these  battlefields  doth  pale, 
When  "  Old  Virginny  "  sends  her  wail, 
And  her  Blue  Ridge  is  all  on  fire, 
When  Sambo  hears  the  Northern  lyre, 
With  chains  and  shackles  holds  no  truce, 
The  world  's  agog !     A  nigger  's  loose  ! 
Blow  the  horn,  call  out  the  dogs, 


144  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DAY. 

And  scent  him  out  from  hedge  and  bogs ! 
Ah !  track  him  from  the  deep  morass — 
That 's  fitting  work  for  Floyd  and  Cass. 
But  ere  we  let  these  numbers  lag, 
We  '11  speak  of  old  Brown's  carpet  bag. 

And  standing  there  in  great  surprise, 

Was  Vallandigham,  with  staring  eyes, 

And  Hunter,  and  Mason,  and  Governor  Wise 

Exchanging  winks  quite  freely. 
Then  up  to  their  elbows  into  the  bag 
They  dive,  and  tear  out  every  rag — 
"  Look !  here 's  a  letter  from  Greeley  ! " 
All  the  Northern  men  of  pith — 
Seward,  and  Hale,  and  Gerritt  Smith — 
Are  shown  to  be  in  complicity  with 

Old  John  Brown,  the  demented ; 
And  Gorden  Bennett  feels  in  his  tripe 
A  terrible  Union-saving  gripe, 
And  puts  in  the  Herald,  in  glaring  type, 

The  names  of  all  the  lamented ; 
And  earnestly  urges  Governor  Wise 
To  blow  Republicans  high  as  the  skies, 
Ere  Brown  he  hangs  or  even  tries, 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DAT. 

And  scare  New  York  with  frightful  lies, 
About  Giddings  and  other  murderous  spies, 

Into  large  hunker  majorities ; 
But  terrible  news  has  just  been  got 
That  a  hundred  thousand  men  were  shot — 
Not  in  the  neck,  but  more  fatal  spot — 

With  little  paper  bullets ; 
And  the  carpet-bag  of  old  John  Brown. 
As  he  dying  lay  in  that  Southern  town, 
\Vas  heard  to  give  out  an  ominous  sound, 
And  Bennett  saw  rise  up  from  the  ground 

A  legion  of  Shanghai  pullets ! 


'45 


LINES  ON  AN  EDITOR. 


man  of  trwth 

A  4*M>  iiar  is  Editor  C., 

The  greatest  beneath  the  sky ; 
And  if  you  offered  him  mines  of  gold 

fib 

For  every  single  icufek  he  told, 

could  not  depend 

You  miht  «t*U  9*     on  a  lie! 


true  the  needle  to  the  pole, 

stands  by 

He  uaurdorr  his  faith  and  friends ; 

no  meanness  he 

And  to  the  loweot  depths  descends, 

But  with   great  candor,  honor 

Where  billiogogatc  »*4  folaohood  blends- 
truth 
Of  ly«»g  he  is  the  soul. 


You  could  not  get  him  to  indite 

untrue; 

A  line  he  thought  was 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T. 


And  he  has  got  it  in  his  heart 

Lord 

To  serve  the  Dwij  with  our  art — 

pride 

A  <dMtfM»  to  me  and  you. 


there  is  good  in 

To  prove  that  mea  a~e  oimnri  all, 

None 

A*w4  totally  depraved, 
You  only  need  his  name  to  call, 
To  push  your  opposer  to  the  wall — 

And  class  him  with  the 

jTrt^^wwc  oH?^  w^t  saveo. 


THE  CONSUMPTIVE. 


("Shall  I  confess  it?    Yes;  I  believe  in  broken  hearts,  and  t!:c  possi- 
bility of  dying  of  unrequited  affection." —  Washington  Irving.) 


I  knew  a  maiden  once,  on  whose  fair  brow, 
The  eighteenth  summer  just  began  to  dawn, 
And  shed  the  graceful  charms  of  womanhood 
Upon  her  sylph-like  form.     No  woodland  bird 
Had  such  a  voice  as  she.     So  sweet  was  it, 
'T  would  lure  an  angel  out  of  Paradise, 
Did  he  but  hear  its  matchless  melody. 


A  truant  o'er  the  world  I  roamed  away, 
Till,  sick  and  weary  of  its  hollow  sports, 
I  sought  my  home  again.     'T  was  Autumn  time  : 
The  rose  had  faded  with  the  north  wind's  breath, 
And  all  the  flowers  were  dead ;  the  summer  birds 
Had  taken  passage  to  a  warmer  clime ; 
The  forest  leaves  were  yellow  with  decay ; 
|    I  sought  the  happy  one  I  knew  of  yore. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  Y. 

The  gray  old  sexton's  voice  grew  tremulous,. 
And  in  his  sunken  eye  a  tear-drop  came — 
The  sweetest  emblem  of  a  feeling  heart — 
As  he,  with  quivering  lip,  did  point  me  to 
A  grave,  just  newly  made.     I  read  its  name — 
It  was  the  name  of  her  I  sought ! 


"  For  years," 

The  sexton  said,  "  I  've  digged  the  graves  around, 
Smoothing  the  resting  place  of  high  and  low ; 
But  never  did  I  go  about  my  task 
With  such  a  load  of  grief  upon  my  heart, 
As  when  I  made  that  grave."     The  old  man  wept. 


A  note  was  given  me.     I  opened  it, 
And  with  an  aching  heart  I  traced  these  words : 
"  I  loved — but  loved  in  vain.     'Tis  hard  to  quit 
This  fair,  bright  world  so  soon ;  but  he  is  false, 
And  I  must  die.     A  poor  consumptive  now 
They  call  me.     I  smile,  and  bless  their  folly — 
The  pain  is  at  my  heart.     Forget  me  not ! 
Adieu ! " 


149 


-o  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

That  grave  is  green  and  grassy  now. 
I  love  to  go,  when  all  the  world  around 
Is  wrapt  in  deepest  sleep,  and  sit  me  there, 
To  brood  upon  the  past  beside  that  grave ; 
And  when  the  midnight  wind's  low  melody 
Breathes  forth  its  melancholy  plaint  of  woe 
Among  the  branches  of  the  tall,  dark  pine 
That  gently  waves  above  her  lonely  bed, 
Methinks  it  is  her  angel  spirit  come 
To  guard  the  footsteps  of  her  erring  friend. 


WHAT  ANSWER? 

The  birds  are  singing  in  the  trees, 
The  air  is  full  of  hum  of  bees, 
And  from  the  bosom  of  the  seas 
My  love-song  comes  upon  the  breeze. 

How  bright  above  us  are  the  skies, 
And  I  can  read  in  those  sweet  eyes 
The  answer  you  cannot  disguise, 
Although  your  lips  express  surprise. 

What  can  I  say  to  one  so  fair  ? 
What  language  shall  my  wish  declare  ? 
The  flowers  in  your  golden  hair 
Do  mock  me  in  my  mute  despair. 

Say  yes,  and  love  that  never  dies 
Shall  be  my  life's  dear  sacrifice ; 
Till  all  within  the  soul  replies, 
In  tones  of  sweetest  melodies. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 

Say  no,  and  hope  is  henceforth  dead, 
Affection  withers  in  its  bed — 
The  spirit's  joy  forever  fled — 
A  sunless,  starless  life  instead ! 

Say  yes,  and  all  that  wealth  has  made, 
Shall  at  my  darling's  feet  be  laid ; 
And  truth's  sweet  presence  shall  pervade 
The  heart's  unceasing  serenade. 


WE  ALL  KNOW  WHO.* 

Who  makes  long  speeches,  somewhat  gassy, 
In  mien  and  manner  frothy,  sassy, 
Proving  that  he 's  always  assy  ? 
We  all  know  who  ! 

Who  's  like  a  monkey  on  a  pole — 
The  higher  up  the  more  the  sole 
Of  his  foot  is  seen  ?     Upon  the  whole, 
We  all  know  who ! 

Who,  when  the  members  go  to  caucus, 
With  much  talk  is  bound  to  cork  us, 
Is  as  nimble  as  a  tortoise  ? 
We  all  know  who  ! 

Who  thinks  upon  his  narrow  pate 
Rest  all  the  cares  of  this  fair  State  ? 
And  it  to  save  from  direst  fate, 
He  's  framing  bills  from  dawn  till  late  ? 
We  all  know  who ! 


*  Referring  to  a  member  of  the  Wisconsin  Legislature. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  Y. 

Who  sits  there  smoking  in  his  seat, 
As  on  his  desk  he  rests  his  feet, 
While  all  his  neighbors  seek  retreat  ? 
We  all  know  who ! 

We  all  know  who ;  and  yet,  and  yet, 
If  I  should  name  him — why,  I  '11  bet 
He  would  blaspheme,  and  fume,  and  fret- 
Perhaps  a  flogging  I  would  get, 
From — we  all  know  who  ! 


THE  OLD  BRIDGE. 

O  don't  you  remember  the  bridge,  Tom  Brown, 

That  stood  down  by  noisy  Red  Mill, 
Where  white-hatted  millers  were  grinding  away, 

And  the  dripping  wheel  never  stood  still  ? 
And  do  n't  you  remember  the  day,  Tom  Brown, 

All  the  boys  ran  away  from  Smith's  school, 
And  had  a  good  time  on  that  hot  afternoon, 

Where  the  mill  threw  its  shadows  so  cool  ? 


And  don't  you  remember  what  pleasure  we  had, 

With  our  trowsers  rolled  over  our  knees, 
While  chasing  the  minnows  up  close  to  the  dam, 

Where  the  water-fall  sang  to  the  breeze  ? 
And  there  was  the  race,  with  its  mossy  old  planks 

All  falling  to  wreck  in  the  sun, 
Where  the  boy  used  to  hide  on  a  bright  afternoon, 

When  the  "  old  man  "  should  look  for  his  son. 


156  THE  POEMS  OF  A    DAY. 

Not  a  few  are  the  years  that  have  flown,  Tom  Brown, 

Since  we  fished  from  the  top  of  that  bridge ; 
Not  a  few  are  the  friends  who  have  laid  down  in  death, 

Ere  their  pathway  reached  over  life's  ridge. 
O  my  eyes  will  grow  dim  with  the  tears,  Tom  Brown, 

As  I  call  back  to  mind  days  of  yore ; 
And  I  yearn  for  the  joys  of  departed  years 

Thai  will  come  back  to  us  nevermore. 


THE  POETS  REWARD. 


A  pretty  bright  lass,  with  soft  smiling  blue  eyes, 

And  features  as  sunny  as  May, 
With  lips  that  were  colored  in  Nature's  pure  dies, 

Asked  me,  in  her  own  laughing  way, 
To  write  her  a  stanza,  extolling  blue  eyes — 

Black,  hazel  or  brown,  if  I  chose, 
Or  anything  else,  if  I  'd  write  it  in  verse — 

She  always  disliked  my  cold  prose. 


And  then  she  looked  at  me  as  much  as  to  say, 

"  You  dared  not  refuse  me,  I  knew ! " 
I  spoke  of  each  color  as  well  in  its  way, 

But  ended  by  praising  the  blue  j 
So  when  I  had  finished  it  off  in  good  style, 

And  asked  her,  What  give  you  for  this? 
There  danced  o'er  her  features  a  shy  little  smile, 

And  she  gave  me,  dear  reader,  a  kiss ! 


GOVERNOR  BAR  STOWS  ADVICE  TO  HON. 
HARRISON  C.  HO  BART.  * 

Said  Barstow  to  his  friend,  one  day : 
"At  Horicon  the  papers  say, 
That  Randall  switched  you  off  the  track, 
And  on  your  friends  you  turned  your  back. 
Now,  Harrison,  they  say  you  're  sly — 
Folks  think  they  see  it  in  your  eye ; 
And,  like  the  clown  within  the  ring, 
Your  heels  hold  in  reserve  a  spring ; 
So  with  a  foot  upon  each  nag, 
Your  head  enveloped  in  a  bag, 
You  change  your  attitude  so  quick, 
And  play  the  thing  so  fine  and  slick, 
That  people  swear  they  cannot  tell 


*  In  1857,  A.  W.  Randall  and  H.  C.  Hobart  were  opposing-  candidates 
for  Governor,  and  stumped  the  State  together.  In  the  discussion  at  Hor- 
icon, Randall  pressed  his  opponent  so  hard  upon  questions  pertaining;  to 
the  administration  of  Governor  William  A.  Barstow,  that  Hobart  declined 
to  defend  those  transactions,  and  said1  some  things  himself  not  consid- 
ered very  complimentary  to  Barstow  and  his  associates.  Whereupon 
Barstow  and  his  ex-Secretary  of  State,  Alexander  W.  Gray,  published  a 
card,  denouncing  Hobart's  course,  and  refusing  to  give  him  their  support. 
I  told  the  story  at  the  time  in  the  Daily  Free  Democrat. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T. 

Which  of  the  steeds  you  ride  so  well ; 
Some  think  the  black,  while  others  say 
They  saw  you  mounted  on  the  gray ; 
And  so  you  vault  from  back  to  back — 
Now  on  the  gray,  now  on  the  black — 
And  throwing  summersets  in  air, 
While  some  are  ready  to  declare 
That  you  have  never  touched  a  nag, 
But  swam  around,  titd  in  a  bag. 

Now,  Harrison,  (your  name  was  Hunt)— 

Excuse  me  if  I  'm  somewhat  blunt, 

But  listen  to  me  if  you  will — 

My  name,  you  know,  was  always  Bill ! 

I  've  never  changed  it  night  nor  day, 

As  I  can  prove  by  Allick  Gray ; 

And,  Hobart,  ere  it  gets  too  late, 

This  little  fable  I  '11  relate, 

Hoping  you  '11  not  let  it  pass, 

But  see  yourself  as  in  a  glass ! 

One  day  a  woodman — poor,  but  good — 
Was  cutting  timber  in  the  wood, 


t6o  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DAT. 

And  cold  and  piercing  was  the  breeze 

That  whistled  through  the  leafless  trees ; 

The  snow  lay  heavy  on  the  ground, 

And  all  was  chill  and  drear  around. 

The  woodman,  turning  o'er  a  log, 

Discovered  that  his  faithful  dog 

Drew  from  its  hiding  place  a  snake, 

As  dead  and  stiff  as  any 'stake ; 

And  filled  with  pity  at  the»sight, 

He  took  the  serpent  home  at  night. 

His  children  pausing  in  their  mirth, 

He  laid  the  reptile  on  the  hearth, 

When,  as  it  felt  the  genial  rays 

Of  warmth,  revived,  as  though  the  days 

Of  summer  had  come  back  again ; 

When  suddenly  a  cry  of  pain 

Pierced  through  that  frightened  household  band, 

And  there  upon  a  young  child's  hand, 

The  serpent  hung  with  poisoned  fang. 

The  angry  father  forward  sprang, 

And  seizing  snakeship,  in  his  ire 

He  dashed  it  in  the  raging  fire ! 

And  as  he  saw  its  body  melt, 

He  cursed  the  pity  he  had  felt. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DAT. 

Now  to  conclude :     This  much  I  say — 
Here  is  myself  and  Allick  Gray  ; 
And,  Hobart,  you  must  not  forget 
We  found  you  out  in  cold  and  wet ; 
We  took  you  in  and  warmed  you  up, 
And  let  you  drink  from  out  our  cup ; 
The  fable  is  with  meaning  rife — 
Don't  sting  the  hand* that  gave  you  life!" 


THE  OLD  CHECKERED  APRON. 

A    JUVENILE    POEM. 

That  old  checkered  apron,  I  »emember  it  yet, 
When  I  used  to  sit  on  it  as  Grandmother's  pet ; 
Notwithstanding  its  owner  has  long  since  been  dead, 
I  can  never  forget  what  a  good  life  she  led ; 
And  I  now  often  think  I  can  see  her  sit  there, 
With  myself  on  her  lap,  in  the  old  rocking-chair. 
I  would  not  exchange  it  for  the  sage's  rich  lore — 
That  old  checkered  apron  which  my  Grandmother  wore. 

It  is  a  proud  relic  of  a  long  time  ago, 
When  I  was  a  stranger  to  life's  cares  and  woe ; 
But  the  hobby  and  top  then  engrossed  all  my  care, 
And  a  fight  with  the  boys,  which  was  not  very  rare. 
And  when  for  my  pranks  my  good  mother  shook  me, 
I  ran  to  that  apron,  for  she  always  took  me, 
And  told  me  a  story  to  make  well  the  sore, 
WThile  I  counted  the  checks  in  the  apron  she  wore. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DAT.  163 

When  I  went  to  the  cupboard  her  sugar  to  steal, 
And  she  then  caught  me  at  it,  O,  how  I  did  feel ! 
And  she  made  it  a  rule  to  send  me  for  the  stick, 
Though  I  never  took  pains  to  get  one  very  thick, 
But  supposed  that  a  small  one  would  answer  as  well ! 
Then  I  had  a  long,  pitiful  story  to  tell, 
And  got  off  by  saying,  "  I  will  do  so  no  more," 
Then  I  took  a  long  nap  on  the  apron  she  wore. 


And  on  Sabbath  morning,  when  I  was  but  a  child, 

When  the  birds  were  all  singing  so  gaily  and  wild, 

Then  I  went  to  the  porch,  where  the  wind  blew  so  cool, 

To  sit  down  beside  her,  on  my  own  little  stool ; 

So  she  looked  o'er  her  glasses,  and  bade  me  be  still, 

And  then  I  stopped  playing,  and  was  silent  until 

She  read  me  a  story  I  'd  not  heard  before, 

From  that  good  Book  which  lay  on  the  apron  she  wore. 


'Twas  a  happy  time  then — work  was  thought  no  disgrace, 
And  we  seldom,  if  ever,  bought  ribbons  or  lace ; 
But  each  one  was  dressed  in  what  grew  on  the  farm, 
And  no  one  despised  it,  or  thought  it  a  harm 


1 64  THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T. 

To  be  clad  all  in  homespun,  from  head  to  the  feet, 
With  an  extra  silk  hat,  which  was  thought  quite  a  treat. 
Lean  poverty  then  never  looked  in  at  the  door, 
To  see  the  old  apron  that  my  Grandmother  wore. 


But  now  I  'm  surrounded  with  silks  and  delaines,' 
And  those  sore,  gouty  toes,  all  swelling  with  pains, 
And  crabbed  old  gentlemen,  who  deal  heavy  blows 
On  poor  Rover's  head,  if  he  but  look  at  their  toes ; 
Or,  when  frisking  about,  if  he  tramps  on  their  feet, 
He  is  heartily  beaten  and  kicked  in  the  street. 
How  much  people  have  altered  since  those  days  of  yore, 
When  that  old  checkered  apron  my  Grandmother  wore. 


That  old  checkered  apron — though  now  past  its  glory, 

It  gives  me  a  pleasure  to  tell  its  plain  story ; 

It  brings  back  to  memory  sweet  childhood's  bright  morn, 

Before  I  had  tasted  the  world's  bitter  scorn. 

Those  old-fashioned  days,  I  must  bid  them  farewell, 

But  it  is  with  regret,  for  I  loved  them  so  well ; 

Still,  one  thing  I  '11  cherish  till  life's  last  pang  is  o'er — 

The  old  checkered  apron  that  my  Grandmother  wore. 


ELKHART  LAKE. 


One  day  we  fled  with  willing  feet, 

From  far-spent  summer's  ceaseless  heat, 

In  city's  noise  and  crowded  street, 

To  find  some  cool  and  calm  retreat, 

Where  lazy  thought  might  rest  the  brain, 

And  ease  erase  the  labor  stain 

Of  over  work ;  where  loss  and  gain 

Could  find  no  ear  for  their  complaint, 

Nor  mar  enjoyment  with  their  taint ; 

Some  place  where  latent  echoes  lay, 

All  undisturbed  by  shrieking  neigh 

Of  iron  horse  upon  its  way ; 

And  where  the  swift  electric  fire 

Cannot  awaken  the  desire 

To  know  the  acts  of  busy  men, 

Who  drudge  and  toil  with  hand  and  pen ; 

But  where  the  sports  of  stream  and  field 

Their  healthful  pleasure  freely  yield ; 


166  THE  POEMS  OF  A  DAT. 

To  calm  the  pulses'  impatient  beat, 
And  cool  the  blood's  fierce  fever-heat, 
Bring  back  to  weary  eyes  the  sleep 
That  childhood  knew,  but  could  not  keep. 

And  so  two  score  did  undertake 
To  hide  away  at  Elkhart  Lake; 
A  few  whose  training  was  to  think, 
Came  down  to  wash  away  the  ink 
From  fingers  that  had  grasped  the  pen, 
And  toy  with  Nature  once  again ; — 
We  found  the  cottage  on  its  banks, 
And  took  possession  with  our  thanks. 

How  passed  the  days  remembrance  tells — 
Sweet  as  the  sound  of  marriage  bells ; 
The  song  of  bird  in  woodland  glen, 
The  search  for  lilies  in  the  fen ; 
The  low-voiced  murmur  on  the  beach 
Of  waters,  like  a  lover's  speech ; 
The  awkward  dip  of  rustic's  oar, 
Who  ne'er  had  pulled  a  boat  before ; 
The  merry  laugh  and  witty  thrust, 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  T. 

And  rare  aquatic  sports  discussed ; 

The  idle  anglers  holding  out 

The  baited  lines  to  lure  the  trout ; 

The  sail-boats  beating  up  the  bay, 

With  maidens'  laughing  roundelay  ; 

A  farm-lawn  just  beyond  the  way, 

Alive  with  youngsters  at  croquet ; 

High  banks  thick  clothed  in  vernal  green, 

Are  in  the  placid  waters  seen — 

Sweet  Nature's  mirror  lily-rimmed, 

And  summer's  sky  with  clouds  bedimmed ; 

Or  when  the  stars  are  on  their  track, 

It  gives  them  all  their  beauty  back, 

And  from  the  bosom  of  the  lake 

We  watch  the  course  the  planets  take. 


Sometimes,  with  noiseless  boat  we  took 
The  oars,  and  lines,  and  angler's  hook, 
And  stole  into  the  quiet  nook 
Where  empties  in  the  laughing  brook, — 
To  sit  beneath  the  shade  of  beach, 
And  drop  our  lines  within  the  reach 
Of  some  shy  trout,  or  cunning  bass, 


167 


,68  THE  POEMS  OF  A   DAT. 

That  lets  the  bait  unheeded  pass, 
With  lazy  motion  of  the  fin, — 
Vainly  we  tried  to  take  him  in, 
Until  with  thrust  of  flashing  steel, 
We  brought  him  from  beneath  the  keel. 

So  lapsed  the  days.     The  nights — how  rare, 
No  pen  but  golden  might  declare. 
We  lengthened  out  the  evening  hours 
For  wider  range  of  social  powers, 
Until  the  glint  of  waning  moon 
Shone  on  the  waters  all  too  soon ; 
Then  sleep  and  silence  held  their  sway, 
Till  night  was  turned  again  to  day. 


THE   YO SEMITE  VALLEY. 


When  first  on  Inspiration  Point  I  stood,  * 

And  gazed  upon  the  wondrous  vale  below, 

I  said  within  myself,  What  hath  God  wrought  ? 

No  speech  there  is  of  man,  nor  hymn,  nor  thought, 

That  can  measure  Him,  or  His.     Be  thou  still, 

O  soul,  and  with  a  spirit  calm  and  meek, 

Worship  Him  in  truth. 


It  was  the  Sabbath; 

A  day  of  charming  sky  and  atmosphere, 
To  enfold  the  soul  with  untold  rapture, 
In  a  place  like  this.     In  all  the  wide  world, 
From  shore  to  shore  and  pole  to  pole,  no  church 
Of  classic  name  and  old,  historic  build — 


*  Approaching  the  Yosemite  Valley  by  the  Mariposa  trail,  the  first 
complete  sight  of  it  is  obtained  from  Inspiration  Point,  32,000  feet  above 
the  Merced  River,  and  probably  the  finest  view  on  the  North  American 
Continent. 


iyo 


THE  POEMS  OF  A   DA  Y. 


In  no  cathedral,  nor  in  mosque  renowned, 
Could  the  devout  and  sincere  worshipper 
Find  such  a  temple  for  the  Most  High  God 
To  dwell  in. 

Who  reared  these  granite  pillars 
That  raise  their  summits  to  the  very  clouds, 
And  bathe  their  barren  peaks  in  this  pure  air  ? 
No  sound  of  workman's  hammer  ever  broke 
Upon  the  sacred  stillness  as  they  grew, 
And  fashioned  in  the  ages  of  the  past ; 
Naught  but  the  will  of  Architect  Divine 
Is  visible  in  this  exalted  work. 
Man's  puny  brain  and  hand  are  helpless  here ; 
He  cannot  give,  but  only  take  the  joy 
That  comes  from  the  One  Source  of  love  and  pow'r, 
And  as  he  kneels  to  beauty,  kneels  to  God. 


I  spurred  my  patient  mule  along  the  path 

That  leads  past  rocks  and  trees  of  mammoth  size, 

And  pines  whose  ripened  cones  for  centuries 

Have  dropped,  by  man  unnoticed,  to  the  ground, — 

Down  the  zig-zag  trail,  with  many  a  turn 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 


171 


And  angle  sharp,  upon  the  very  brink 

Of  stony  precipices,  where  below 

The  hungry  caverns  waited  for  their  prey. 

The  danger  nerves  one  like  the  glow  of  wine, 

And  with  re-echoing  shouts  to  comrades 

Who  linger  lazily  upon  the  way, 

From  the  glib-tongued  guide,  you  reach  the  valley, 

And  seek  along  the  Merced's  winding  banks, 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Sentinel, 

The  rest  and  peace  from  one's  long  journeying. 

For  days  we  loitered  in  that  charmed  spot, 
And  photographed  its  most  delightful  views 
Upon  the  background  of  the  memory. 
El  Capitan,  with  rugged  seams  and  sides, 
Presents  you  many  quaint  and  comic  shapes, 
Each  holding  some  tradition  for  itself, 
Within  the  red  man's  dark  unwritten  history. 

The  dread  Pohono  of  the  legend  dim — 
The  Bridal  Veil — is  swaying  in  the  wind, 
Like  idle  gossamer,  a  fleecy  cloud, 
But  half  concealing  Nature's  fairest  charms, 


172 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 


With  rainbow  bands  encircling  it  above 

The  giant  crags  that  stand  as  groomsmen  there ; 

Then  hides  itself  forever  from  the  sight, 

Within  the  vernal  bosom  of  the  pines 

That  spread  their  willing  branches  underneath, 

To  clasp  the  modest  bride  in  close  embrace. 


Yonder  the  fall  of  the  Yosemite  * 

Leaps,  in  wild  beauty,  from  its  giddy  height — 

A  crystal  ribbon,  flashing  in  the  sun — 

To  waste  itself  in  spray  upon  the  rocks, 

Then  forms  a  cascade  when  but  half  way  down, 

And  seeks  the  Merced's  crooked  bed  below. 


In  what  colossal  grandeur  tower  there 

The  proud  Cathedral  Rocks — most  fitting  name 

To  bear.     And  yonder  graceful  pinnacles, 

The  Spires,  lift  up  their  points  to  kiss  the  clouds, 

Whose  crimson  lips  the  setting  sun  does  tinge. 


*  The  first  vertical  fall  is  ten  times  the  distance  of  Niagara.  Then  the 
water  finds  its  way  in  a  series  of  cascades,  down  a  descent  equal  to  626 
feet  perpendicular,  then  gives  a  final  plunge  460  feet  more,  to  the  base  of 
the  precipice. 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 


173 


Save  the  fleet  step  of  Tu-toch-ah-nu-lah, 

When  in  search  of  Tis-sa-ack,  whom  he  loved, 

No  foot  of  man  on  yonder  Dome  has  pressed, 

Nor  has  he  read  the  secret  of  its  page, 

Writ  there  by  the  slow-moving  pen  of  Time. 

Ye  hailed  the  morn  when  Christ,  the  Lord,  was  born, 

And  heard  the  chanting  chorus  of  the  stars, 

That  sang  of  peace  on  earth  and  joy  to  men, 

Above  the  manger  where  the  child  was  laid. 

To  thee  how  fleeting  is  the  race  of  man  ! 

His  ages  are  but  as  the  morning  dew, 

And  thou  hast  looked  upon  them  all, 

From  first  to  last,  and  waited  for  their  birth, 

While  tardy  centuries  their  exit  made. 


Sometimes,  from  peak  to  peak,  a  bridge  of  clouds 
Would  hang  suspended  in  the  summer  air, 
Stretching  from  dome  to  laughing  waterfall, 
O'er  which  the  spirits  of  the  storm  might  drive 
Their  rumbling  chariots,  drawn  by  the  steeds 
That  wore  a  harness  of  electric  fire, 
Then  mounts  in  upper  air,  to  fly  away 
And  clothe  with  splendor  some  majestic  crag 


174 


THE  POEMS  OF  A  DA  T. 


Of  the  far-off  Sierras,  while  the  sun 

Throws  over  all  his  shining  robe  of  light, 

And  turns  their  snow-clad  tops  to  burnished  gold. 

So  here  we  wandered  in  amazement  dumb, 
Searching  in  vain  for  speech  to  coin  our  thought, 
As  if  we  had  been  born  into  a  world 
Of  such  delightful  beauty — so  sublimely  grand, 
That  sight  tied  fast  the  tongue, — but  bade  us  look 
While  Nature  pressed  her  finger  on  our  lips  ! 


UCLA-Young  Research   Library 

PS3039   T381p 


L   009   607   805   0 


AA    001  221  138    9 


